


Underneath The Pines

by elospock



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A LOT of Angst, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Biphobia, Bisexual Draco Malfoy, Bisexual Harry Potter, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Draco Malfoy is Bad at Feelings, Draco Malfoy is Clueless About Muggle Things, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Established Sirius Black/Remus Lupin, Everyone Needs A Hug, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry Potter Needs a Hug, Harry Potter is Bad at Feelings, Harry Potter is So Done, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Harry Potter, Parselmouth Harry Potter, Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Racism, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, SO MANY TAGS!!, Self-Harm, Slow Build, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing, The war is not over, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violence, a lot of swearing, honestly harry is not okay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2019-11-06 16:14:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17943002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elospock/pseuds/elospock
Summary: Bloody hell, it’s going to be a long year, thought Harry as he exited the Great Hall. He had escaped the feast early, wanting to get away from the crowd, from all the familiar faces--and all the missing ones.He knew coming back to Hogwarts would be hard; but he hadn’t expected it to hurt that much.*What happened after the Battle of Hogwarts, Eight Year and Beyond. Not epilogue compliant. Endgame Draco/Harry.A lot is going to happen in this fic, which can be summed up with Harry Is Not Okay And Won't Be For A While.





	1. Prologue.

**Author's Note:**

> ~Read the tags carefully!!~
> 
> There will be a lot of potentially triggering content in this fic, from self-harm to suicidal thoughts, violence, mentions of child abuse (mostly canon-compliant, but not all of it), biphobia/homophobia, internalised biphobia/homophobia, racism (though no use of slurs, besides canon compliant), mental health issues, depression, PTSD, bullying, as well as explicit sexual content, and a lot of swearing.
> 
> A lot of slow build, pining, unresolved/eventually resolved sexual tension, some hurt/comfort, angst, all the angst, but also some fluff, and eventually some smut.
> 
> Will try to add trigger warnings to chapters with more graphic depictions of violence/abuse, but also know that this is not a happy fic. At least, not for a long while. This fic is an attempt to paint Harry (and Draco) in a more realistic light; in my (non-professional) opinion, both of them would suffer from PTSD after living through so much trauma, and it will show. Real life has a knack for mixing everything up, I know that first hand, so trauma never really leaves, mental health is always kinda there, feelings are complex and tangled up--and this is what is going to happen in this fic.
> 
> But it's also not going to be all dark! 
> 
> As JK wrote, “Happiness can be found in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light.”
> 
> As Leonard Cohen sang, "There is a crack in everything that's how the light gets in"!
> 
> So it's dark, but there is also so much friendship, love, tenderness, happy tears, empathy and compassion.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! <3
> 
> **The title comes from Lana del Rey's song '13 Beaches', and I feel that a lot of the feelings in this fic were inspired by the atmosphere of this song, which is about fame and finding oneself.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Suicidal thoughts
> 
> *
> 
> This is a pretty short chapter, and not much happens, but I've already written the next one so... you will get more in the next few days! :D

**Prologue. I’m Falling**

 

**_September 1, 1998. FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL._ **

 

 _Bloody hell, it’s going to be a long year_ , thought Harry as he exited the Great Hall. He had escaped the feast early, wanting to get away from the crowd, from all the familiar faces—and all the missing ones.

He knew coming back to Hogwarts would be hard; but he hadn’t expected it to hurt that much. He wondered how the others could do it. How they were able to eat, smile, joke around, laugh, and look so happy, like nothing had happened, when they had been fighting for their lives on these very grounds, in this very Hall, barely four months ago.

Harry kept picturing the long row of bodies that had been lined up where the House Tables now stood once more. He kept seeing Remus Lupin’s face, more at peace than he had ever seen it since Sirius had died.

At the time, Sirius’s death had been one of the hardest things to ever happen to Harry; but Remus’s had been worse in so many ways. It had left him bereft of any sense of family, of any tie to his past, and made him as painfully aware as ever of just how much he had missed, how much he would never know, how much he had irretrievably lost—and all of it, always, because of Voldemort. Killing him had changed nothing. Killing him had done nothing but prevent further harm. Killing him had been a relief, and yet, it had all been over too quickly. Tom Riddle should have suffered, or at the very least, atoned for all the harm he had caused. Even in death, he still had won in too many ways. It was bitterly cruel and painful.

As long as Remus had been alive, Harry still had someone. Someone who knew his parents, someone who had grown up with them, someone who had known Sirius, someone who knew what could have been. Someone with whom he could mourn all of them. No matter how much he loved the Weasleys, and how welcome he felt in their midst, he was not one of them—and he would never be. And now, how could he possibly face Molly and Arthur and George when Fred’s absence stood out like a sore thumb. He could barely face Ginny and Ron as it was.

And then there was Teddy. Harry’s heart sank when he thought about the similitudes of their fates; both orphans, both as infants, both because of Voldemort. He took comfort in knowing that at least, Andromeda would be a much better family to Teddy than the Dursleys had been to him. And contrarily to his own godfather, he at least would be there for him as well. It was heartbreaking to think how hard it must have been for Sirius to be wrongfully condemned to Azkaban with no hope of ever getting out, not only because it was unfair and the result of the worst of betrayals, but knowing his best friends were dead, knowing his godson was alone in the world, knowing there was nothing he could do about it. And all of these feelings, with the Dementors feeding off them… Merlin, but how he missed Sirius, how he wished they could have had more time, how he wished they could have been given a proper chance. So much pain, so much hurt, and for what?

Harry slowly went up the stairs, letting the noise of the Great Hall fade out. From an open window, he could feel the warm breeze of the ending summer; for a second, he was almost tempted to go by the lake.

But he couldn’t face the grounds yet. Especially not at night. The signs of the battle were still everywhere; in the missing trees, the fallen rocks, the holes in the ground, and the simple white crosses at the edge of the Forbidden Forest with nothing on them but a name and a date.

And he could certainly not face the Forest, its deafening silence, its eerie calm; this was where he had decided to die, where he had made peace with not surviving Voldemort, where he had greeted death as the friend that had followed him ever since that fateful 31st October 1981. He was not scared of the memories, of the pain, of reliving everything; no, quite the opposite, he was scared he would be too tempted to finish the job. To die like he had meant to. Like he hadn’t been able to. To feel again the peace he had briefly found, and knew the world of the living could never offer him. ‘Pity the living’, had said Dumbledore then. It was not pity that Harry felt for himself, but longing for it all to end.

No, the castle was still safer; the signs were scarcer there. Most of the damage had been repaired already. A team of Unspeakables had even cleared the stones of most of the dark magic left by Voldemort and his followers. Of course, there were marks of the battle that would never disappear; the battle was part of Hogwarts history, now, just as much as the Chamber of Secrets. And if Harry had learned anything over the past few years, it was that burying History only made it easier for it to repeat itself, over and over again.

Didn’t make it easy in the present, though.

With a shudder, Harry climbed the long way to the Gryffindor tower. Belatedly, he realised he didn’t know the password yet. Or if that was even where the Eight Years were sleeping either. There were so few of them… Maybe he should have asked before leaving the Hall. But the thought of waiting for a professor or the prefects was too much for Harry right now.

“Harry? Where are you going?”

Harry closed his eyes. He had done his best to avoid Ginny all summer, with more or less success.

“Wotcher Gin,” he greeted her, plastering a pale smile on his face. “Is the feast over yet?”

Ginny quickly went up the few steps between them. “Almost. I saw you leave and… Well, I know you cannot possibly be alright right now, but I just wanted to check on you.”

Harry’s face softened as he looked at her concerned frown. “Thank you, Gin. I really appreciate it. But… I don’t think I can handle being around people right now.”

She scoffed. “I know what you mean.”

Harry hesitated. “I can’t… I can’t stop thinking. About them. About Remus. About Fred. About Lavender. About Colin.”

Ginny nodded, a sad smile on her lips. “Me neither. Everywhere I look, I see him and George, and…”

Harry felt his throat constrict at the pain he could see on Ginny’s face; it was the same pain he was constantly feeling. Gently, he took her hands and pulled her into a hug. A part of him wished he were less broken, less angry, less sad, so he could love her properly, like she deserved. He knew she would still take him, if he tried. But he just couldn’t. He was not the person she needed, and he never would be. And he didn’t want to be, he realised.

“Is everything ever going to be okay, Gin? Even after all of this?”

She shrugged. “It has to, right? This, too, shall pass, and all of that?”

Harry hummed noncommittally. Still hugging, they remained in a companionable silence until they could dimly make out the sounds of a horde of people coming up from the Great Hall.

Ginny slowly let go of him. “What are you even doing up here, anyway? I thought the Eight Years had a common room of their own.”

He shook his head. “No idea, actually. Should probably find out, I reckon.”

She snorted. “I reckon you probably should, if you don’t want to sleep in the corridors.”

Harry tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Can you… tell Hermione that I will be there by curfew?”

Ginny arched an eyebrow. “She won’t like it.”

“I just—it’s just—I can’t—”

Ginny held out a hand, stopping him. “It’s okay, Harry, I will. But I can’t guarantee she will not come after you and wake up the whole bloody castle if you are even just a minute late.”

Harry raked his fingers through his already messy hair. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Thank you, Gin. You’re the best.”

She shoved him playfully. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Now go, before I change my mind.”

The clamour was growing louder and louder and Harry barely had time to get up a few flights of stairs and hide before the pride of lions flooded the area, headed by Hermione.

He looked at her with a sad smile, before sneaking out towards the Astronomy tower.

 

*

 

 _Bloody hell, it’s going to be a long year_ , thought Draco, as he made his way out of the Great Hall, under the scrutiny and ill-suppressed disgust of most of the students.

He tried to look in front of him and keep a blank face; the last thing he wanted was people thinking he felt any kind of superiority or smugness. And indeed, superior or smug he definitely did not feel. He barely felt anything at all, these days. But he also wouldn’t cower in shame. He was a Malfoy, no matter how much he hated it at the moment, and in adversity like prosperity, Malfoys lay low, and defeat never show. He could still remember the first time he heard his father saying these words; he must have been five or six years old. It was too ingrained in his ways for him to change at this point.

The feast was almost over, and people were starting to get up and gather in small groups. He walked faster, wanting to avoid the crowd at all costs. Out of habit, he glanced at the Gryffindor table. As he let his eyes drift over, looking for one head of messy black hair in particular (why was he even looking for it, by the way), he caught Granger’s gaze and almost froze on the spot. She must have seen something in his eyes, though, because she simply arched an eyebrow in question and nodded at him. Draco nodded back mechanically before breaking eye contact and making his swift exit out of the now bustling hall.

He climbed the stairs very quickly, only pausing when he had put some distance between the Great Hall and himself. Leaning on a window sill, he looked down at the grounds, shadows slowly growing under the fading sunlight.

Though Draco was grateful that the Eight Years were in a dorm of their own, he knew he would have to face the Slytherin common room sooner than later. And yet—how could he? How could he face the green room without counting how many had not come back, how many had fled, how few of them were left? How could he face the First Years, scared and distressed at having been placed in the House that betrayed The Boy Who Lived? How could he face the older students, who knew what role he had played in the War, who knew he only escaped Azkaban because of testimonies from the Golden Trio and with the firm promise to finish his schooling and do community work? How could he face the fact that Snape would never barge into the room ever again, with some announcement or another, or ask to talk to Draco alone to comment on his Potions homework, with a glint of pride in his eyes? How could he face this, how could he face them?

And then there were all the other Houses… He had done his best to protect the students when he was at Hogwarts. The brief moments he was allowed to remain there for more than a few hours at a time, that is to say. He had tried to make the Carrows trust him, to delegate their punishments to him. They never did. He did his best to look the other way whenever a younger student did something he knew would get them Crucio’d or worse. But there was only so much he could do.

Draco shuddered at the memories. Merlin knew he wanted to bury them as deep as possible. If he didn’t, how could he possibly face all the students, the professors? How could he face Hogwarts at all?

He scrubbed his face with his hands and let the stress and pain of the day seep through as he briefly allowed his mask to come down. He had to be strong. More than ever, he had to be brave. He would not let them win. He would not let the Dark Lord win.

But he also would not become his father. He would not use this opportunity at freedom and a new life to further any agenda. He knew Lucius longed to restore the Malfoy name, even from Azkaban, but Draco would not be the one doing it. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if he could take his mother’s name and forego being the Malfoy heir altogether. He huffed at himself. No, that was the easy way out. That would be hiding, trying to avoid facing his mistakes and the shortcomings of his blood. It would be deceit, and cowardice. No, he was a Malfoy, and he always would be; to deny it would not only be preposterous, but also foolish. He’d do better going into hiding or fleeing the country.

The sun had completely disappeared now, and the stars were shining bright above the castle, as they always had been, long before Hogwarts had been founded, and would be long after it was gone. He found the Draco constellation easily; how often had he looked up to the night sky, as a child, trying to decipher its mysteries and wisdom. How he had longed to become one with it, to take his namesake’s place amidst the stellar bodies. Even now, he still found comfort in their quiet millennial brightness.

Draco didn’t know exactly how long he stayed there, in calm contemplation of the clear starry night. He knew curfew was nearing; he wondered what would happen if he was caught out of bed by a professor or a prefect. He couldn’t really find in himself to care.


	2. Those Walls I Built

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for some form of self-harm, injuries

**Chapter 1. Those Walls I Built  
**

The sun was almost completely set when Harry made it to the tower. He paused at the entrance. He hadn’t been there since that fateful night Snape had killed Dumbledore. It was weird to have to reconcile how he had witnessed the events unfold with Snape’s memories now. He couldn’t help but wish, yet again, for either of the two men to still be alive. He had so many questions, so many things he wished he could have said to Snape after his final confession. It’s not like he suddenly loved the man; he still had made his life miserable for six years after all. And he had so much anger towards Dumbledore, for all his secrecy, for all his hidden plans, all his decisions regarding Harry’s life taken without his consent.

Slowly, he went up the narrow staircase and walked up to the wall the Headmaster had fallen over. Strange to think it had only happened last year. It felt like a lifetime had passed.

Harry looked up to the sky. The sun was only a fading red light now, and the moon was starting to rise. As the stars became more and more visible, he couldn’t help but look at the constellations; years of Astronomy lessons had made him pretty good at finding his way around the stars. His throat constricted as he found Canis Major and Sirius, shining in the clear sky with its usual brightness.

And then it was all too much; without warning, the tears he hadn’t known he was repressing were streaming freely down his face. He slammed his fists on the hard masonry of the immovable parapet. And then again. And again. And again. He hit the wall until he couldn’t feel his hands anymore, until the blood started staining the old stones. He fell to his knees, letting the gut-wrenching sobs take over his body. The pain from his hands was throbbing, and yet it was nothing compared to the deep ache tearing up his insides.

Harry lost track of time. After what felt like hours, he felt his tears subside slightly, his breathing easing a little. He looked down at his hands, the blood shining black under the moonlight. He knew Ron and Hermione would probably start looking for him very soon, and yet, he couldn’t find in himself to care. The thought of them finding him like this, crying and bloody, was almost too much to bear. He knew he ought to move, clean himself up, go to the infirmary, maybe hide somewhere for a while. But it was like he was paralysed, feeling so utterly dejected and vulnerable that his body was some kind of foreign vessel that he had no control over anymore.

Closing his eyes, Harry attempted to calm his ragged breath and to draw on his very last reserves of energy. Slowly, he pulled himself up from the floor. He felt like his whole body was unbelievably heavy, like someone had poured concrete down his spine, his muscles, his bones. On shaky legs, he climbed down the narrow staircase.

The corridors were uncannily quiet as Harry painstakefully made his way through the nearest bathroom. Though he had been at the top of the castle only minutes ago, he was suddenly in front of the second floor bathroom, the very same one hiding the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets. _Bloody magical castle_ , he thought. If it wasn’t for his current state, he would have laughed at the irony. He desperately hoped Moaning Myrtle wasn’t around. Though he suddenly realised with some shock that since Tom Riddle was now completely dead, it was possible that Myrtle wouldn’t be there anymore. Or maybe it had nothing to do with it? His head was too fuzzy at the moment for him to remember how ghosts worked. Hermione would probably know. He made a mental note to ask her later. He pushed the door open with his shoulder and went to the closest sink.

*

Slowly, Draco walked along the silent corridors, letting his feet decide where to go, lost in thought. He wondered what Potter was up to; he was probably in the Gryffindor common room, surrounded by all of his bloody friends, all of them celebrating yet again the victory of ‘Light over Dark’, hailing and dubbing him the Saviour of the Wizarding World, as _The Prophet_ liked to call him now. Logically, he knew that they must all be grieving too; he too remembered the long line of bodies in the Great Hall. It was not a sight he would forget anytime soon, or ever. Yet, all he could picture was Potter smiling in the middle of the red and gold tower, laughing over a joke Weasley told him, drinking butterbeer and toasting to Dumbledore, and being disgustingly in love with the Weaslette. Worse, maybe they were doing this in the new Eight Years common room, which meant Draco would have to endure the sight every day. He groaned.

When he passed a too familiar suit of armour that greeted him politely, he jerked out of his brooding. Of course, of all places, his feet had subconsciously taken him to the second floor, and he was now facing the bathroom he had almost died in—could it have been only a year and a half ago? Merlin, if there was one place from before all that happened last year he didn’t want to revisit at the moment, it was this one.

He was about to turn back when he heard some noise coming from the room. Frowning, Draco looked at his pocket watch; it was way past curfew. Who would risk detention on their first night back? Hell, who would even wander the halls and corridors by themselves at night after last year? Slowly, Draco walked towards the door. Yes, there was indeed someone in there, he could hear the familiar sound of splashing water. And whimpering. Should he go in? Or would it make it worse? He definitely wasn’t the most popular person in the school at the moment, after all. Maybe he should just let it be and alert a teacher. He snorted to himself. Yeah, because _snitching_ was going to help with his ‘popularity’.

But what if the person needed help or assistance? He hesitated. His old self would have already left right now, for fear of making his reputation worse; his even younger self wouldn’t have been here at all, too eager to strut in the Slytherin dungeons like a prince. But this was not who he was anymore. This was a fresh start. Maybe the person on the other side wouldn’t be pleased—rather, _definitely_ wouldn’t be pleased—to see Draco, but on the off chance they needed help, he had to do something. And if they didn’t need help, well, no harm no foul.

With that mindset, he pushed the door open.

*

Focused on cleaning himself up, Harry didn’t hear the door opening and footsteps coming to a halt behind him.

“Well, how the tables have turned.”

Harry’s breath hitched in his throat. He would have recognised that drawl anywhere. Of course, of all the bloody people in the castle who could have walked in on him right now, it had to be Draco bloody Malfoy. He would have laughed at the irony of his current predicament if it wasn’t painfully bitter.

“Piss off, Malfoy,” he managed to say, unable to stop his voice from wavering. He hated how weak he sounded.

He heard Malfoy step a bit closer. “You, me, this bathroom, one of us covered in blood… We really have to stop meeting like this, Potter.”

Harry closed his eyes and sighed. “If you’re going to _Sectumsempra_ me, better do it now, while I can’t use my hands.”

Malfoy snorted. “Quite tempting actually.”

Harry gave a half shrug. “It’s not like I wouldn’t have it coming.”

He heard the other man sneer behind him. “That’s certainly one way of putting it. Though, again, tragic backstory notwithstanding, I think I probably had it coming too.”

It was his turn to snort. “Well, you _were_ just about to Crucio me, weren’t you? And you know, up to no good in general. And in my defense, I didn’t know what the spell would do.”

“Right. So you just went ahead and tried it. How Gryffindor of you,” said Malfoy dryly. “I suppose I should be grateful to be alive, considering.”

Looking at the blood washing off his hands, Harry couldn’t help but wince at the memory. He remembered only too sharply the acrid, metallic smell of blood as it was draining from Malfoy’s body, mixing with the water coming from the broken pipes, his skin becoming almost as white as the porcelain tiles beneath him, his weak whimpers raw with pain and fear. “For what it’s worth, I have been sorry I used that spell on you the second I realised what it had done, Malfoy. And I really am— sorry.”

The other man hummed noncommittally. “I still have scars, you know.”

 _Merlin_ , thought Harry. He closed his eyes. “I didn’t know.”

The soft trickle of water was the only sound filling the strained silence that followed. Harry shifted a little on his feet. What was Malfoy doing here? Of all days, of all moments, it had to be this one? After Harry had his worst meltdown in weeks? He looked down at his hands and sighed. This was a right mess, wasn’t it? He would have to explain what happened, there was no getting away with it this time. Merlin, but he was already tired just thinking about it.

The Slytherin scoffed, pulling him out of his thoughts. “It would really be easier to hold a grudge over this if you hadn’t saved my life. And if I hadn’t been a downright blind and self-righteous arse, back then.”

Stunned, Harry turned around to face Malfoy. His hair was the longest Harry had ever seen him wear, as neat as expected, but not in an obnoxious way for a change. He was casually leaning against the wall, both of his hands in his pockets, looking as thoroughly composed, cold and arrogant as ever—except no, he didn’t, noticed Harry with a start. Composed, sure. Cold, maybe a little. But arrogant? Curiously, not so much. That certainly was new.

When did he get so good at reading Malfoy anyway? _That’s what you get for stalking and being obsessed with him for six years_ , whispered a voice at the back of his head that sounded suspiciously like Hermione.

Malfoy’s eyes widened as he took in Harry’s appearance. “Bloody hell, Potter, what on _earth_ happened to you? Did you get into a fight with Blast-Ended Skrewt or something?”

Harry looked down at himself, his once grey shirt now completely soaked with blood and dirty water, his swollen hands steadily turning purple, his face puffy from crying, his glasses tear stained. Merlin, he must really look awful if the worried look etched on Malfoy’s face on was anything to go by.

He sniffed, shaking his head haggardly. “Why do you even care?”

Malfoy gave him a piercing, guarded look. Harry held it, a challenge forming in his eyes despite the situation.

The Slytherin was the first to relent, his gaze flickering to the Gryffindor’s bloated hands. “Shouldn’t you go to the infirmary for this?”

Harry shrugged. “Dunno if I want to.”

“Oh, of course,” sighed Malfoy sarcastically. “You’re just going to bleed to death, then, are you?”

The Gryffindor narrowed his eyes. “Again, why do you care?”

Malfoy pinched the bridge of his nose. “Salazar help me, Potter, I know you are the Saviour and all, but even you have to accept that you need help sometimes.”

“And what, you’re volunteering? I don’t need your help, Malfoy. I don’t _want_ your help.”

The other man threw him an unimpressed look. “Well, the way I see it, either you let me help, or I go and get McGonagall before you do something stupid, like not doing anything about this, or worse, try to fix it yourself.”

Harry was feeling more and more desperate. “No! I don’t want anyone to know. I don’t want anyone’s help. You could, er, just leave and forget about all of this?”

Malfoy arched an eyebrow in response, crossing his arms on his chest.

Harry gritted his teeth. “ _Fine_. Alright. What do you propose to do then?”

Malfoy stepped closer to where he stood, peering down speculatively at his hands. Harry couldn’t help but be reminded of Hermione when she was attempting to solve a particularly interesting problem, which made him sneer inwardly; it was a comparison he was sure neither of them would appreciate.

Harry involuntarily flinched when Malfoy drew his wand. The other man hesitated. “I’m not gonna hurt you, Potter.”

Harry threw him a disbelieving look. “Really? Sorry if I don’t take your word for it. When have you ever tried _not_ to hurt me? How can I trust you not to?”

Malfoy let out a frustrated sigh. “Potter, if I’d wanted to hurt you, I reckon I’d have done it by now, don’t you think?”

Harry leveled a calculating gaze at the blond. Well, it was true that so far, Malfoy had been uncharastically civil with him. He imagined going to the infirmary and trying to come up with an explanation for his injuries, and he couldn’t stand the thought of Madam Pomfrey looking him over with knowing eyes, and putting him on some kind of watch or something. Ron and Hermione would be no better; they would probably tell him he ought to check himself in the Janus Thickey ward of St. Mungo’s immediately and talk to someone. It wasn’t that Harry was opposed to see a Mind Healer; he just wasn’t ready to trust and open up to anyone about everything he felt. Bloody hell, _he_ wasn’t even sure he really knew how he felt, let alone explain it to anyone else.

Well, it was not like he had many options left anyway.

He nodded reluctantly. “Well, go on then. Wanker.”

Rolling his eyes, Malfoy raised his wand, producing gentle silver threads that wrapped harmlessly around Harry’s hands, moving around rapidly. After a while, they started to turn a pale shade of blue.

Malfoy frowned in concentration. “Well, the good news is, I don’t think it’s broken.”

Waving his wand expertly, he muttered some kind of incantation; the threads turned to gold, changing patterns swiftly.  

Harry couldn’t help feeling curious. “How do you know these spells?”

The Slytherin shrugged distractedly, focusing on the intricate arrangement of the golden strands. “Funny how many Diagnostic and Basic Healing spells you end up learning when you live around someone like Aunt Bella.”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. For some reason, he had never realised that Malfoy might have been on the receiving end of Bellatrix’s moods and cruel games.

Malfoy let out a satisfied huff. “Well, I can relieve the swelling, it might help us see if there are tears in the muscles and tendons.” He glanced up at Harry with an interrogating gaze. The Gryffindor nodded absently, too shocked by what the blond had disclosed to focus on anything else.

“I didn’t realise.”

“You didn’t realise what?” asked Malfoy, frowning in concentration over the new charm he was casting. Harry suddenly felt a cool sensation cascading over his hands and he looked down at his rapidly deflating hands. They were still an angry shade of red, with gashes still slowly spilling blood, but the pain had decreased considerably.

“I think I never really realised that you also had to put up with Bellatrix’s madness and bloodlust.”

Malfoy looked up sharply, his previously relaxed demeanour tensing instantly. “There’s a lot you don’t realise about my life and upbringing, Potter.”

Harry realised he hadn’t looked— _really looked_ —at Malfoy in a long time. Though he had been playing it cool and casual, his body was taut and tensed, his eyes guarded and searching, his signature drawl lacking the usual superiority and venom. Harry didn’t know why it surprised him so much to see Malfoy showing signs of stress and strain.

“Yeah, I can see that now.”

The other man narrowed his eyes. “I don’t need your pity, Potter.”

Harry simply shrugged. “Good, ‘cause it never even crossed my mind. I guess I just meant that I don’t really know what you’ve been through.”

Malfoy stared at him in disbelief. “Merlin, Potter, you were held at the Manor, you saw how it was. And you were there in the Astronomy tower on that bloody awful night. For Salazar’s sake, you even caught me crying in this fucking bathroom. And then, you testified at my trial and heard the rest. You bloody well _know_ what I’ve been through.”

For all of his hardships and losses, Harry at least had been free to make his own choices, to stand up for the people he loved, and to fight for what was right because he had been surrounded by people who believed in him, who supported him, who valued him. And it was true, he knew for a fact that Malfoy didn’t have most of these. Had he been free to make his own choices? Sure. Everybody was, right?

But the stakes were not the same for him, were they? The stakes had been ‘turn your back on your family, your friends, and everything you have ever known’ for someone like Malfoy. He couldn’t even make a run for it; Lucius Malfoy couldn’t leave, so neither could Narcissa, and therefore, neither could Malfoy. The Slytherin had been a bully and made many stupid mistakes, but he was loyal to a fault to his family and did love his mother fiercely. He would probably move heaven and earth if it meant he could protect her.

And to be honest, Harry understood that; he would do the same for the people he loved. If Malfoy had left or run, who was to say what Voldemort would have done? It had been a no-win scenario for Malfoy, Harry realised; he could either have left and watched his mother die from afar, or stayed to protect her and risked watching her die from up close anyway, unless he did everything Voldemort asked him to. After witnessing first hand Narcissa’s love and devotion to her son, Harry saw her in a new light, and couldn’t help but feel a profound respect for her unmovable determination. She had risked her own life to protect Draco’s without a second thought and impulsively turned on the most powerful and dangerous wizard in Britain, with only Harry’s word that he was still alive. It was selfish, sure; it was about her son, not Harry, not the war. He remembered clearly that moment during her trial, when she explained that all of what she did, from the Unbreakable Vow she made with Snape to that ultimate betrayal in the Forest, had been to protect her son, to the best of her ability. He remembered it clearly because that’s when it had hit him; Narcissa would have as readily died for Draco in front of the Dark Lord than Lily for Harry.

That had been an uncomfortable realisation to say the least.

At the end of the day, Malfoy hadn’t really had a choice; his father had made it for him, all those years ago. His two options were pretty bad: choosing what was right and letting his loved ones die, or choosing what he knew was wrong and thus protecting them. Harry knew which option he would choose—and it wasn’t the righteous one.

Sometimes, possibly, he recognised, doing something bad for the right reasons was better than doing something good for the wrong ones.

“Yeah, sure”, he acknowledged. “But there’s a big difference between living through all of this when we were on opposite sides of a war, hearing it in front of the bloody Wizengamot, and then actually hearing it from you while you are fixing me up after one of my worst meltdowns.”

The blond lifted his head a little. “I didn’t know the Saviour of the Wizarding World even had meltdowns.”

Harry huffed in disbelief. “Well, I guess there’s a lot you don’t know about what I’ve been through either.”

Malfoy looked at him searchingly. Dropping his gaze to Harry’s still bloody hands, he frowned and set to close the deepest gashes with some kind of stitching spell.

“I can’t believe I’m actually about to ask this but… What’s going on, Potter? Are you okay?”

Harry snorted. “Yes, Malfoy, I’m doing fine, so bloody fine. As you can see.” He shook his head, suddenly overcome by a bonedeep weariness and exhaustion. “Why is it any of your business, anyway?”

The blond arched an eyebrow and turned Harry’s hands, meticulously cleaning the cuts, vanishing the blood and working to heal the bruises. He hissed when Malfoy pressed on the side of his left hand.

Malfoy shook his head. “I think you might have a tear in your muscle here.”

“Yeah, what was your first clue?”

Never letting go of Harry’s hands, he rolled his eyes. “Salazar and Godric both, get off your high thestrals for a minute, will you? I’m just trying to help.”

“But why, Malfoy?” he repeated. “Why do you care, why are you helping me?”

He shrugged. “You saved my life, Potter. It’s the least I can do, isn’t it?”

Harry frowned. “And you saved mine as well. You don’t owe me anything. I don’t need _your_ pity, Malfoy.”

Closing some of the shallower cuts left by the unforgiving stones of the Astronomy tower, Malfoy didn’t look up as he replied. “As you so aptly worded it earlier, it never even crossed my mind.”

Harry turned his head away from the Slytherin. _What the hell is happening_ , he thought. Here he was, in the girls’ lavatory, with Malfoy, of all people, fixing him up. Here he was chatting with Malfoy, as though they regularly conversed like normal human beings and not with a series of seemingly never ending expletives and insults.

Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t immediately realise that Malfoy had put his wand away. He did notice it quickly enough when the git started to massage his hands.

“Ouch! What in the name of Merlin are you doing? It bloody hurts!”

The blond huffed. “Well, do you want to be able to use your hands tomorrow or not? There’s only so much magic can do to body injuries—or at least magic I can perform short of being a trained Healer.”

“Alright, alright. Just, warn a bloke before you do that, in the future, will you?”

Slowly, Harry did see an improvement in his hands’ dexterity and appearance; they were barely swollen anymore, and the cuts had scarred almost invisibly.

After what felt like hours but was probably only a few minutes, Malfoy finally stopped maiming his fingers.

“That’s about the extent of what I can do for your hands for now,” he concluded approvingly. “Now, you will definitely feel some pain for the next few days, but nothing a pain potion or ointment can’t help with. You could always go to the infirmary and say you fell in the stairs. Looks more believable now.”

Harry sneered. “Yeah, that sounds about right, the Boy Who Lived Twice, the Saviour of the Wizarding World, in the infirmary because he fell down the stairs. The Prophet will have a field day.”

Malfoy snickered. “I can already see the headlines: The Boy Who Tripped.”

Harry tried to shove the other boy, but he was quicker. “Shut up, Malfoy.”

“You ungrateful oaf!’” cried Malfoy dramatically. “After I fixed your poor excuses of hands so _nicely_.”

Harry had a small smile. “Thank you for that, by the way. I owe you one.”

Malfoy tutted. “Nevermind that. I owed you more.”

He looked at the Slytherin. How curious, to be standing there and have an almost cordial conversation with his school nemesis. With a start, he realised he also felt slightly better than before. It was unexpected, to say the least. Merlin, if anyone had told him this morning he would feel better after spending some time with Malfoy, he probably would have laughed hysterically.

“So are you planning on sleeping here tonight, Potter, or shall we make our way to our new dormitory, before Filch and his ungodly creature find us wandering the school at night?”

Harry arched an eyebrow. “D’you know where it is, then?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Well, of course, weren’t you listening to McGonagall?”

The Gryffindor crossed his arms in front of his chest defensively. “Well, I’m sorry, I think I left before she even started to say anything.”

The other man sighed. “Right. Of course. It’s actually very close to the Great Hall. I guess McGonagall decided she’d rather have us run ‘out’ than ‘in’ the castle this year.”

“Hum. Clever of her.”

They both started walking out of the bathroom, pausing at the door to make sure Filch wasn’t around.

“This is weird,” whispered Harry, as they made their way down to the Great Hall.

Malfoy tilted his head. “What is?”

“This,” Harry waved between them. “Us, not trying to hex each other’s balls off.”

The Slytherin huffed haughtily. “I’ll have you know, Potter, that I’ve _never_ tried to hex your balls off.”

Harry snorted. “If you say so.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence, pausing now and then when they thought they heard footsteps. They didn’t run into anyone and before they knew it, they were both standing in front of a tapestry of a beautiful unicorn and a thestral, sleeping in a peaceful embrace; and yet there was something eerily sad about it as well.

“How do we get in?” asked Harry.

Without a word, Malfoy got his wand out and touched the unicorn, who opened a sleepy eye. The tapestry became translucent, revealing an archway behind it. Malfoy took a step towards it, but Harry stopped him.

“Wait. If we walk in together, people’ll make it weird.”

Malfoy frowned, but nodded after a second. “Right. Of course.” Then he added, with barely concealed anger and contempt, “what business could a Death Eater have with their precious Saviour, if not try to hurt or kill him? Nevermind that McGonagall was the one who advocated for and insisted that I returned this year.”

Harry shook his head. “You have to realise, Malfoy, that most of them don’t really know what went down in the end. And yes, for a lot of them, you don’t deserve to be here while so many of their friends and families died at the hands of other Death Eaters. But I’m not about to let them mob you or throw you out of school.”

“I don’t _need_ nor _want_ your bloody protection, Potter,” he spat.

“Right”, he sighed. He really was too exhausted and emotionally spent to deal with this. “So then, do you really fancy having an argument about it with our classmates on our first day back at Hogwarts?”

“I am not a damsel in distress for you to rescue, Potter. And,” he added, before Harry could speak, “don’t you _dare_ bring up the Room of Requirement, because I really might end up hexing your balls off after all.”

Harry held his hands up in what he hoped was a calming gesture. “Okay, okay, Malfoy! I wasn’t going to! Merlin’s tits, don’t get your knickers in a twist. What was it you said earlier? ‘I’m just trying to help’? Well, this is what I’m doing for you right now. Trying to help.”

The Slytherin dropped his gaze to the ground. “You don’t owe me anything, Potter.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m not doing this because I owe you anything, you git. It’s the right thing to do.”

“Bloody Gryffindors.”

“So I’m gonna go it first, because I’m almost certain Ron and Hermione are waiting for me in the common room. Wait in the archway for a few minutes and then go in. Good?”

The Slytherin huffed. “Good? Not bloody likely, but whatever you say, Potter.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Git.”

“Prat.”

“Ferret.”

“Scarhead.”

Harry smiled. “Glad some things haven’t changed.”

Malfoy looked at him, a painful shadow clouding his eyes. “Not sure I agree with you on that, Potter.”

How bloody insensitive he was sometimes. Harry cursed himself inwardly. Of course, Malfoy didn’t long for the way things used to be. And neither did he, really.

“Oi! Don’t go all soft on me, Malfoy,” he joked, trying to defuse the tension building up again between them. “Otherwise, I’m gonna have to assume that you’re scared.”

Malfoy sneered. “You wish, Potter.”

Harry smiled. “Good.” And without further ado, he nodded at the other man and walked in the common room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this, my friends! The next chapter will come in a week. :)
> 
> Also, there's going to be An Actual Story to this, not just Harry and Draco falling hopelessly in love. The first couple of chapters will set the tone and start the year off, but Some Interesting Plot Development to come as well!
> 
> Until then, live long and prosper~


	3. One Good One To Stay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not many trigger warnings, just maybe for allusions to violence/suicidal thoughts, and some strong language/using derogative speech.
> 
> *
> 
> Okay, so I meant for this chapter to cover more ground than this, but these characters just wouldn't cooperate, and what was supposed to be a short scene ended up becoming a longer one.
> 
> The tone shifts a little (and more than once) in this chapter, and I've been debating whether to rework it or to let it be. In the end, I feel that even in life, levity and weird self doubt can cohabit with despair and anger, and also that seemingly "normal" interactions can happen, even at the worst of depression and bad times. So I chose to keep it as it is.
> 
> I was going to wait until I had the second part written to publish this, but I'm a perfectionist and I read and reread my chapters a thousand times before publishing them, so it would probably delay too long publishing this chapter. 
> 
> So INSTEAD, I'm giving you this, and you will have the rest in a few days. I've said it before, but this fic is going to be pretty slow build... However I think that the pace is going to pick up a little in the next couple of chapters. But it really is going to be all about Draco/Harry going from enemies to friends first, and then, well, we'll see what happens, now, shall we? *winks*
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy!

**Chapter 2. One Good One To Stay  
**

 

Harry barely had time to throw a look around the common room before Hermione jumped on him and trapped him in a bear hug. “Harry! Where have you been? We thought something had happened to you!”

Slowly, he put his hands around her waist and gave her a few little taps on the back. “Hermione, I know you’re relieved to see me and all, but I can’t breathe.”

She reluctantly let go, a reprobatory look on her face. “Where the bloody hell were you? We were worried sick!”

Ron appeared behind her, scratching his neck. “She’s right, mate. You can’t go on disappearing on us with no warning like that.”

The black haired man shrugged uneasily. “I just needed a walk, to clear my head. That’s all.”

Hermione gasped. “What happened to your hands?”

Harry looked down at them, hoping they hadn’t started bleeding again; they looked a bit battered, but definitely not suspiciously so. “Oh, er, I—I, er, helped Hagrid with something,” he explained lamely, hoping she’d buy it.

Ron swore under his breath. “Don’t tell me he’s got Blast-Ended Skrewts again!”

Harry took a few steps inside the room. “No, no, I just helped him, er, fix something. You know, with—tools,” he added under Hermione’s intense scrutiny. “Thought some manual work would help me clear my mind. So this is our new common room then,” he continued quickly, desperately wanting to steer the subjects towards less treacherous waters. “Not bad.”

Hermione hummed; she didn’t look convinced, but thankfully let it go for the moment. “Yes. Though I do miss the Gryffindor tower, this is actually quite nice.”

Harry looked around him in wonder. The room reminded him of the Great Hall a little; the ceiling also mirrored the outside sky, which was, at the moment, like shining velvet, alight with thousands of stars and the soft glow of the waning moon. Banners in each Houses’ colours were hanging around the room, which was perfectly square. Though the upper walls were made of stone, the lower part was covered in intricate wooden carvings; some sections contained bookshelves with reference books, others had glass doors protecting artefacts, glasses, cups, teapots. On the wall facing the entrance stood a majestic hearth made of black marble with veins of gold, silver and bronze where a brazing fire was burning.

Ron groaned. “Well, the common room’s alright, it’s just the dorms the problem.”

There were five doors on one side, presumably leading to them. Harry frowned. Five dorms?

He arched an eyebrow, looking at Hermione. “What’s wrong with them?”

She rolled her eyes. “ _ Nothing _ . Ron just has  _ very old fashioned ideas _ , that’s all.”

Ron looked as though Hermione had grown a second head. “Mixed dorms. Mixed dorms! We’re sharing with  _ girls _ , mate!”

“Oh,” Harry replied, looking sideways at Hermione. “Well, why is that bad?”

Ron stared at his friend, horrified. “ _ They’re girls! _ ”

Harry blinked. “Ron, you’ve literally slept in the same room as Ginny for years.”

“She’s my  _ sister _ and we—we were  _ children _ !”

Hermione tapped her foot down. “Oh, come on! We’ve slept in the same tent for months last year.”

Ron cleared his throat, his cheeks blushing a little. “But, well, Mione, it—that’s different!”

She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “How so?”

The ginger waved in her general direction. “Well, for a start, you’re my girlfriend, Hermione.”

She rolled her eyes. “But I haven’t always been, and I certainly wasn’t at the time, was I?”

“No, but—”

“What about Harry then?” she cut him off.

“What about me?” Harry chimed in, alarmed. Had he—But no, he’d never been interested in  _ Ron _ , now, had he? He was very fit and all, but—

Wait, did he just think that  _ Ron was fit _ ?

“We slept alone in the same tent for weeks,” she added. “I didn’t mind, and Harry certainly didn’t, right, Harry?”

Oh, right. They were talking about Hermione.  _ Of course _ they were talking about Hermione. Maybe he had also hit his head in the Astronomy tower.

“No, of course not,” he replied quickly. He took a second to look inward. Was he attracted to Ron? But it was  _ Ron _ . His first friend. His brother. You could think someone was good-looking without being attracted to them. Right?

_ Right _ ?

Suddenly suspicious, Ron looked from Harry to Hermione. “... I just remembered that you did.”

The brunette threw her arms up. “And so what? Nothing happened, and we were perfectly happy, weren’t we, Harry?

“Well,” Harry admitted, “I wouldn’t say happy…”

She waved him off impatiently. “Oh, you know what I meant!”

He eyed Hermione thoughtfully. Okay, so did he think  _ Hermione _ was attractive? He looked at her; at how the light from the fire was catching on her dark skin and made the hues of brown of her hair almost incandescent; at how her tight curls were bouncing as she paced the room, badgering Ron; at the fire and passion in her brown eyes, brighter than all the lights in the room combined; at her curvy body, soft and full, much stronger than it looked. Yes, he realised. Hermione was really attractive. Ron was a lucky bloke.

But he wasn’t attracted to her, not like that. Not like he had been to Ginny, for example. 

“Ron, do you think Ginny is attractive?” he asked, still lost in thoughts.

He looked up to find Ron and Hermione looking at him like deers caught in headlights. Okay, maybe it had been a weird question to ask.

“Why the bloody hell are you asking me?” he responded in a slightly higher-pitched voice. “She’s my  _ sister _ .”

Harry clicked his tongue. “Yes, I know, not like that, I meant more, like,  _ objectively _ .”

Ron stared at him like he’d just announced he was getting married to Crookshanks. “ _ She’s my sister _ .”

Harry sighed. “I know, believe me, we’ve all noticed.”

“Oh, come on, Ron!” Hermione interjected. “For instance, objectively, I think Harry is very handsome.”

Ron gaped at Hermione, horrified. “ _ You think Harry is very handsome _ ?”

She shrugged. “Well,  _ objectively _ , yes. You’d have to be blind not to. You don’t think Harry is attractive, Ron?”

The ginger opened and closed his mouth a few times. He glanced at Harry, visibly panicked. “I—What— _ Harry’s my best mate _ !”

Hermione bit her lower lip, in a vain attempt to suppress a smile. “No, I know, but  _ objectively _ , Ron.”

“I never thought about it before!” he yelped, his face now as red as the Gryffindor tapestries.

She cleared her throat, turning on Harry. “Well, Harry, do you think Ron is attractive?”

He widened his eyes. Had she seen through him? She always was too perceptive for her own good, Hermione was. She looked at him pointedly, waiting for his reply. 

Well, he  _ had _ just established with himself that one could find someone attractive without being attracted to them, hadn’t he? Bloody hell, was he really having a weird sexual crisis  _ now _ , of all times? Didn’t he have enough crises to deal with already?

He cleared his throat. “Uh. Well.  _ Objectively _ . Yes, I think you’re a fit bloke, Ron,” he deadpanned. 

Ron looked like he was going to have a heart attack, and Harry and Hermione just bursted out laughing at his bewildered look.

“You’ve all gone mental,” he huffed, “that’s what is going on. First the girls sharing our dorms, now this.”

Harry wiped his eyes. He hadn’t laughed like this—well in months, really. He didn’t dwell on the thought, not wanting to go back there so soon. It felt so good to laugh for a change. “Oh, come off it! What’s so wrong with sharing with girls? We’re all adults, aren’t we?”

Ron threw him a scandalised look. “Come on, mate! That’s not—That’s not  _ proper _ !”

“‘Proper’?” Harry laughed. “Who are you, mate, the bloody  _ Queen _ ?”

Ron frowned, confused. “The Queen? The Queen of what?”

“Well…  _ The _ Queen. Our Queen,” he answered slowly. “The Queen of England.”

Ron scoffed. “England has no Queen!”

Harry turned to Hermione, who was looking as abashed as he felt.

“Are you having us on, Ron?” she asked, her brow knitting. “It’s the Queen, Elizabeth II, Head of the state and the Commonwealth? Living in Buckingham Palace?”

Ron’s eyes glanced from one to the other like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

Hermione pinched her nose. “I can’t believe it!”

“Ron, you really don’t know about the Queen?” Harry repeated. To think that there were people in Britain who were as English as they came who didn’t know that their country was a constitutional monarchy headed by Her Majesty the Queen was so preposterous, it was—well it was almost comical. The Dursleys would have had a fit. 

“Well, Queen or no Queen,” Ron stated pointedly, “I’m not sharing my dorm with girls, and that’s the end of it.”

For the upthenth time, Hermione rolled her eyes. “Ron, just think of them as Ginny. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t share a room with Ginny?”

Ron held his hands up. “I wouldn’t share a room with Ginny. She’s bloody scary.”

Harry shook his head. “Why does it bother you so much?”

“Why  _ doesn’t _ it bother you so much?” the ginger man countered.

“I mean… I don’t know,” the Gryffindor replied. He thought about it for a while. “It just doesn’t. I think after everything that happened last year… It’s just not such a big deal, you know? Plus, I’ve spent most of last year sleeping in close quarters with both of you, and it didn’t seem weird. Why would it be now?”

Hermione put a hand on his arm, with a sad smile. “I think the same, Harry.”

Ron sighed. “You’re right. It’s just, I can’t wrap my head around it. What—What if I open the door and they are—they are, you know, naked?” he whispered, as though that was the most horrifying thing to ever happen.

Harry arched an eyebrow. “Are you going to do it on purpose? Like, open the door while there’s a hypothetical naked girl, I mean.”

Ron let out an outraged cry. “No! Of course not!”

“Are you gonna be creepy about it if it happens by accident?” he insisted.

“No!”

Harry turned towards Hermione, repressing a smile. “Do you plan on wandering naked in the dorms?”

“Certainly not!”

“Well, then!” concluded Harry.

The ginger man glanced nervously towards his girlfriend, fidgeting with one of the cushions. “But what if—what if they, er, check me out or something?”

Hermione closed her eyes and sighed deeply. “Ron, did you think Dean or Seamus were checking you out when you were sharing with them?”

Ron snorted. “No, of course not! Why would they have? We were all blokes.”

The black haired woman rubbed her forehead. “Ron, you do know they are in a relationship. Together,” she added, at his confused look. “With each other.”

There was a pregnant pause.

“ _ What _ ?” shouted Ron and Harry at the same time.

Hermione threw her arms to the ceiling. “ _ Honestly _ . You are impossible! Are you both completely blind? It’s been obvious there was something there since Fifth Year! Pavarti and I had an ongoing bet on when they would finally get it on, and she won it right before the Christmas holidays in Sixth Year. Honestly, I thought you,” she pointed at Harry, ”at least would know about it, since that’s the reason why Ginny and Dean broke up in the first place.”

“Wait, what?” repeated Harry. “ _ What _ ? Really?”

Ron was still shaking his head. “Are you sure they’re not just  _ really good friends _ ?”

Hermione stared at him in disbelief. “Do you often snog your best friends?”

He coughed a little. “Well…”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, alright. Do you often snog  _ Harry _ because he’s your  _ very good friend _ then?”

Ron put a hand over his heart, as though mortally offended. “Ew, no! No offense, mate,” he added quickly.

Harry snorted. “None taken. I wouldn’t kiss you either.” With relief, Harry realised it was true. Well, that solved his sudden questioning crisis.

“Anyway, all I have to say is,” Hermione intervened, “you are a prude, and an old fashioned one at that—”

“—who doesn’t even know who the bloody  _ Queen _ is, Hermione—”

“—and I think it’s a fabulous idea that will definitely help promote inter-house friendship,” she finished.

Ron just shook his head in response, muttering under his breath something that sounded like, “Mental, they’re all mental.”

Harry decided it was time to redirect the conversation to more practical concerns. “Who are you with anyway? In your dorm, I mean.”

Ron whimpered. “I’m with Ernie, Lisa and Daphne.”

Harry snorted. “I think your virtue is in safe hands, mate. And you, Hermione?”

“With Dean, Isobel and Draco.”

“You’re with the  _ ferret _ ?” exclaimed Ron. “And you’re just telling me now?”

“Don’t call him that, Ron,” she tutted. “And I tried telling you earlier, but you were having a ridiculous fit over girls in shared bedrooms, like a bloody First Year.”

“But, Mione, it’s  _ Malfoy _ .”

“So?” she asked. “You know Professor McGonagall personally saw that he would come back to Hogwarts this year. You were there during the trials. He has changed.”

“HE’S STILL A BLOODY DEATH EATER!” Ron roared, jumping from the couch.

Hermione stood up as well. “No, he’s not, Ron! And keep your bloody voice down, you’ll wake up the whole castle!”

Harry put an hand on his friend’s arm. “He’s alright, Ron. I’ve talked to him. He really seems to be changed.”

Ron shot them both a disbelieving look. “Has  _ everyone _ gone off their rocker?”

“I can assure you, Weasley, your girlfriend’s honor is safe with me.”

Like one, the Golden Trio turned towards Malfoy as he walked into the common room.

*

Draco was leaning on the archway. Obviously, none of them had heard him come in. They probably hadn’t noticed he had been eavesdropping for quite a while now. 

He looked at them. Merlin, no wonder the Prophet was swooning over them. They were dashing, they were young, they were strong; they just fit with each other so well, like pieces of a complex puzzle. He could see Potter react minutely to the anger that crossed Weasley’s face, and the latter turn his head ever so slightly towards Granger, like he was asking for permission. Draco would have missed the glance the Saviour threw at her if he hadn’t been watching them closely. There was something unspoken between the two of them, a silent agreement beyond Weasley’s understanding; something however that wasn’t lost on him, if the way he sharply clenched his jaw was anything to go by.

The ginger took a few steps in his direction. “You better watch your tongue, ferret.”

Draco held a hand. “I’m not looking to pick up a fight with you, Weasley.”

And it was true. The last thing he wanted to do was antagonise anyone on the first day of school. All he wanted was to blend in, to disappear, to go through the school year and pass his NEWTs without drama. Draco knew it was a fantasy; no one would soon forget he was the son of Lucius Malfoy, and that he’d had his arm maked forever by a dangerous mad man he had the lunacy to follow. And to be frank, he didn’t think he deserved to blend in and have his past erased so quickly either.

The ginger snorted. “Well, that’s a first. What, did you leave your wit with Mummy in exchange for her wand?” 

The Slytherin pushed himself from the wall and walked until he was nose to nose with Weasley. “Say that again, weasel.”

“Or what? You’re gonna tell your Mum?” he shot back. “She’s too busy whoring herself with the whole Wizengamot for that.”

Draco saw red. With one swift move he had his wand out and was about to throw a curse to Weasley, when Potter jumped out between them and slammed him forcefully on the wall behind, effectively restraining him.

Granger was doing the same, pulling her oaf of a boyfriend towards the other side of the room, her own wand out.

“How dare—You fucking arse, Weasley, don’t you dare speak—” he screamed, his face contorted with rage. The Gryffindor tightened his hold in retaliation, a warning look in his eyes.

Draco tried to wiggle himself out of Potter’s grip, but to no avail. Visibly, the slender man was stronger than he looked.

“Yeah? Come at me!” the ginger yelled, trying to untangle himself from his girlfriend. “Try me! What are you fucking waiting for?”

“That’s enough, Ron!” Potter exploded. “Stop it!”

Draco could feel the familiar tingle of magic coursing through the other man’s body, simmering under his skin. His breath caught in his throat. He had experienced first hand Potter’s magic over the past few years. For some reason, it felt homey, like something he knew really well but had forgotten about—which was weird considering the blond had only ever experienced the other man’s magic in hostile situations. He stopped squirming and let his head drop heavily against the wall, panting hard, still glaring scathingly towards the ginger man. Draco saw Weasley get out of Granger’s grasp exasperatedly, throwing his arms in the air.

“How can you be fine with him being here, Harry?” Weasley hissed. “How can you stand there and watch him go through life like nothing’s changed, when our families, our friends can’t? Fred is dead, Harry. Lavender is dead. And so are Colin and his brother. Why is he allowed to be here when they—when they can’t and won’t ever be able to ever again?”

Draco felt his rage deflate a little. Weasley wasn’t wrong. If he was honest with himself, he often thought the same. But the choice had been Azkaban or Hogwarts. And though he had hesitated, he would have sooner died than share a cell with his father and abandon his mother. So Hogwarts it had been, even if every fiber of his being was telling him he shouldn’t come back. But he hadn’t abandoned his mother when the Dark Lord was alive, and he certainly wouldn’t abandon her now. She was worth all the discomfort, regrets and pain.

All the lamps and candles started to flicker. Draco could now definitely feel Potter’s magic build up dangerously. The Gryffindor abruptly let him go and turned to face his friend.

“You think I don’t fucking know that,” he snarled. “You think I’m not reminded of that every fucking minute I walk these halls? You think I forget about their faces, about how I used to be so annoyed with Colin, how I cannot remember last time I had a genuine conversation with Lavender? You think I can ever forget about Fred’s face the first time he produced a corporeal Patronus? You think I forget about Remus? About Sirius? About my fucking parents? I’m not allowed a minute of peace, Ron. Ever. And when I try, for five minutes, to let the past go and live a normal life, have normal conversations, everyone around me reminds me of it. It’s like  _ you _ just can’t stop yourself from throwing it in my face every chance you get. Like I didn’t also live through all of it.”

Potter kicked a footstool, which suddenly caught fire. With a jerk of his wand, he extinguished it as quickly. The three of them jumped at the loud splash the water made when it reached the ground. Draco could only watch, gaping, as the other man’s magic seemed to fill the room with electricity.

“But Malfoy?” He extended his arm towards the blond. “You think I want him dead? After all the death we’ve seen? You think I want him gone? Locked up? Kissed by a Dementor? What for? For the crimes of his family? For the manipulations of his father? For the madness of his aunt? Of a man who had the lives of everyone he knew in his hands? He didn’t kill anyone, Ron. Bloody hell, he even protected me back at Malfoy Manor, or did you conveniently forget about that? I’m alive because I decided he wasn’t gonna die in the Room of Requirement. I’m alive because his mother, whom you just insulted, would have died for him. Yes, he’s a prick, and he was most of our childhood. He did unspeakable things, was insufferable; I’m not gonna pretend otherwise. But that’s it, Ron. That’s what it was: our childhood. We were so bloody young. All of us.”

The ginger braced himself against one of the couches, throwing his friend a disbelieving look.

“Yeah?” he scoffed. “And yet, I don’t see a Mark on your arm. Or mine. Or Hermione’s. We resisted. We fought. We were on the run for months. And we  _ also _ were just kids. Being young doesn’t excuse everything.”

Granger took a step towards her boyfriend. “What about Regulus, Ron?” she argued, her tone cutting and cold. “He was just a kid when he joined Voldemort, and he betrayed him when he was still one too. What about Snape? Without whom Harry wouldn’t be standing here right now? Who sacrificed everything for Lily? What about Dumbledore? Who was once seduced by Grindelwald and his ideas of a Greater Good? Why did they get a chance at redemption but Malfoy can’t? Bloody hell, you were there at the trials, Ron,” she hammered angrily. “You’ve heard the same thing we have.”

“Ah, yes,” the Gryffindor huffed in disgust. “The trials. I heard a coward’s way out,  _ that’s _ what I heard during the trials. I don’t care what you or Harry think; for me, he will always be a coward and a traitor.”

Draco briefly closed his eyes, trying to gather himself up, and grasp at the last straws of his fleeting courage. He could do this. He’d done it so many times in the past few months. What was one more time? But he would be damned if he was going to go gently into that good night, in front of Weasley of all people. The electric waves of Potter’s magic ignited his anger at the man. No one, no matter how mad they were at the crimes his mother had been a part of, could insult her and get away with it.

“You’re not wrong, Weasley,” he spat. “I have been a coward. More than that. Much more than that. I was an accomplice. I watched, and didn’t do anything, most of the time. By all rights, I should be in Azkaban right now. I am not because my mother sacrificed everything for me. I am not because Potter here spoke against it. I am not because McGonagall asked that I be given an opportunity to redeem myself. Did you think I wanted to come back, Weasley? That I’ve been looking forward to it? You don’t know how it was last year, here. I wasn’t there often. But when I was…” 

He let his thoughts trail bitterly. He could feel the familiar pressure of tears behind his eyes, and wished them away as hard as he could. No. He would not crack in front of them. They didn’t deserve his vulnerability.

Draco inhaled deeply. “I am a coward, Weasley. I was a bully, and a bigoted, jealous git. I was a fool, and a bitter, spoiled brat. I know that, now. I can see that, now. You want to yell at me, call me names, shun me out of society, then go for it. But don’t you dare— _ don’t you dare _ —talk about my mother like that. You don’t know what she’s been through.”

“It’s not that your conversation is not interesting or extremely relevant and valid,” they all jumped at Longbottom’s sudden interruption, who was yawning from one of the doors leading to the dorms, “but you are being  _ really _ quite loud. You’ve woken up the whole House, and though it’s just the first day back, I think we’d really appreciate if we could get some sleep. Quarrel notwithstanding.”

Granger sighed. “You’re right, Neville. It’s almost one o’clock. We’re so sorry, we’re going to sleep in a minute.”

“Alright,” the tall Gryffindor replied, stretching and yawning again. “G’night.”

“‘Night,” replied Potter. Weasley said nothing, still glaring venomously at Draco.

“He’s right though,” acquiesced the black haired man, rubbing his eyes with his fingers. At the twitch of pain that flicked on his face, Draco knew they were probably still quite painful. He made a mental note to look for his bottle of dittany based cream and bring it to him tomorrow morning. Then he caught himself; it wasn’t like he was suddenly friends with him. One friendly interaction between rivals was not enough to erase seven years of insults, fighting and hatred. And yet, Draco couldn’t help but feel something had shifted between them. And, he realised, he was grateful for it. 

Potter glanced at him before setting his eyes on his friends. “We should really go to sleep.”

“Before we do,” interjected the Head Girl, a stern look not unlike McGonagall’s on her face, “I think we should all shake hands and move past everything that was said tonight. It’s not going to solve the deep issues we have with each other,” she added, before either Draco or Weasley could interrupt, “but we need to learn to get along. We need to show the rest of the school a good example, don’t you reckon? And that goes especially for you, Ronald. Alright?”

“Right,” echoed Ron. “And you want us to  _ shake hands _ ? Like it’s going to change anything.” 

Draco shrugged; he quite agreed with Weasley, a handshake wouldn’t erase the cutting words he had spoken. A little voice at the back of his head was whispering that maybe, revenge was a dish best served cold. Better bide his time than risk a confrontation he was sure to lose right now.

But what was the point of revenge? Defend his mother’s honour? Prove he was not as helpless as he looked? Another voice suggested that maybe, just maybe, revenge was not the answer. He snorted inwardly. Maybe he should wear a yellow tie tomorrow, if he was going to go all Hufflepuff about it.

“Bloody hell, just shake hands already, will you?” groaned the brunette. She pulled the ginger with her towards where Draco was standing.

Weasley looked at him with open disgust and animosity, a sentiment that Draco shared unequivocally. They walked towards each other, and crushed their hands together in a painful grip. Granger pushed her boyfriend aside, rolling her eyes, and grasped the blond’s hand in a much more sensible handshake. 

Potter also approached, scratching his neck with his left hand. The Slytherin looked intently at the Gryffindor, a shadow in his eyes. He raised his hand a little, but hesitated. He was suddenly reminded of another situation, another handshake, which he had been denied at the time. And for good reasons, probably. But now, seven years later, Draco couldn’t help but feel scared he would be rejected once again, no matter what had happened earlier. He wondered if Potter would relish in the feeling of humiliating Draco once again, by leaving him hanging. Before he could finish this train of thought though, the other man took his hand gently and shook it. Something inside Draco broke, and he fought hard against the tears building up, hoping he could hold them in until he was in the relative safety of his four-poster bed. He nodded towards the other man in silent acknowledgement, trying hard to convey his gratitude; the past was the past. He thought he saw something flicker in Potter’s eyes, and the shadow of a smile cross his face, but it was gone too quickly for Draco to be sure.

“Right. Now that this is out of the way, d’you know who I’m with, Hermione, in the dorms?”

The curly haired woman hummed. “Oh, yes, I have it here. Right, so, there’s five rooms, Ron is in room 2, I’m in 5 with you, Malfoy, and you’re—” she ruffled through a pile of parchments,” you’re in 1, with Blaise, Padma and Susan, Harry.”

At this, Ron nodded curtly, kissed Hermione on the cheek, and walked briskly past Potter, without even stopping or acknowledging him. He disappeared through the second door without even a glance in Draco’s direction. Well, he supposed, it beated getting punched.

Potter looked miffed, staring at the door his friend has just disappeared behind. “Right. Well. I’m knackered. See you tomorrow,” he said shortly, moving towards the doors.

Granger went after him, putting a hand on his arm. “Harry, wait. Are you sure you’re alright?”

The Gryffindor threw her a disbelieving look. “Are you? After that conversation?”

The brunette hesitated, but shook her head.

Potter sighed heavily. He suddenly appeared to be much older than he was. “Yeah. Thought so.”

“Harry—” she began.

He gently took her hands in his. Draco felt uncomfortable, like he was witnessing an intimate moment he really shouldn’t. It seemed that the two of them had forgotten all about him, though he was standing only a few steps away from them. “Hermione, I really need to sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow, yeah?” said Potter, softly.

She gazed at him searchingly, her brown eyes warm with concern and compassion. She hugged her friend briefly. “I love you, Harry. Try and get some rest, okay?” Draco heard her whisper.

He felt his throat constrict with emotion. Merlin, he wished he had someone like Granger in his life, who could understand him without words, who could project so much love and kindness towards him. Pansy had been a great friend, but though they had known each other forever, they had never been like that. It didn’t do to show too much attachment or emotions when you were a Slytherin or heir of a pure-blood family.  _ Not now _ , he thought. He had to be strong. Just a few more minutes, and he would be in a warm bed he could pass out on. 

The other man nodded, and the Head Girl disappeared through the fifth door, without looking back. As she brushed past him, Draco saw tears starting to spill on her cheeks. “Goodnight, Draco,” she said, her voice wobbling.

“Goodnight,” he replied mechanically. He glanced wistfully at her back as she walked through the door leading to her dorm. She really was quite something, wasn’t she?

But now, it meant that, for the second time that evening, Draco was alone with Potter. He shifted on his feet, unsure of what to do next. Should he say something? Should he just leave? 

The silence grew almost unbearable, and then he just decided he’d rather say something than not, awkwardness and caution be damned. “Well, this was fun,” he said sarcastically. “Let’s never do it ever again.”

Potter snorted. “Couldn’t agree more.”

The Gryffindor moved towards the dorm doors.

“Potter?” the blond called after him, as the other man had his hand on the doorknob. “I know we are basically arch-enemies, but…”

He paused, suddenly unsure. How was he going to even formulate it?  _ I know we are arch-enemies, but you can talk to me if you are feeling suicidal _ ? Yeah, no. Somehow, Draco thought it wouldn’t cut it. 

Potter turned towards the other man, arching an eyebrow. “But what?”

Draco waved impatiently. Merlin, but he hated when people played at being thick.  “You know what.”

Potter’s face closed. It was quite impressive how quickly it happened, like a wall had fallen back down in front of him. Draco was taken aback by the strength of it. 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Potter replied curtly.

The Slytherin rolled his eyes. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake, don’t be daft, Potter. You know very well what I mean.”

“Oi! You don’t have to insult me,” exclaimed Potter. He gestured randomly, visibly unsettled and uncomfortable. “Why would I even talk to  _ you _ , of all people, about it? I can barely talk about it with my friends. I just—I’m not good at—talking about this. ”

Draco had a small smile. He knew the feeling only too well. “Neither am I. I know because… well, let’s just say that I’ve been there myself.”

Salazar, he was suddenly forcefully brought back to Sixth Year, when he thought he would never be able to fix the cabinet, when panic was threatening to submerge him every second of every day, when he had but given up on life, and wanted nothing more than to go to sleep and never wake up. The alternative, surviving and failing, would have been worse. Or so he had thought back then. And well, he hadn’t been wrong. Dying would probably have been kinder than living through last year.

The Gryffindor raised an eyebrow questioningly, but didn’t pry. And that was good, because Draco certainly wasn’t ready to open up. “Right,” he sighed.

“Right.”

They looked at each other uneasily.

“Goodnight, Malfoy,” said Potter, after what felt like years.

Draco nodded. “Goodnight, Potter.”

Potter opened the door and he started walking towards his.

“And Malfoy?” he said, as the blond was opening his door. He paused, looking at the Gryffindor expectantly. “Thank you. Really.”

Draco smiled sadly as he closed the door behind him. He was still thinking about Potter’s surprisingly understanding green eyes as he reached his bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoped you enjoy! :) Next chapter coming in a few days. Will try after that to publish every Thursday.


	4. There's A Fire Starting In My Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: bullying, name calling, some violence
> 
> ... so this chapter has been driving me c r a z y. i've been working on it for weeks now, and... i just kept writing further chapters along the story instead of this one. so three weeks later than i thought, here it FINALLY is. 
> 
> and now that this chapter is out of the way, i have s o m a n y p l a n s a n d i d e a s for this fic.
> 
> also........ let's just say that one of the chapter further along the story that i've been working on to procrastinate this one...... well it's gonna make your drarry hearts happy. but soooooooo much will happen before we get there. like so much.
> 
> without further ado, please know that i deeply apologise for this untenable delay.

**Chapter 3. There's A Fire Starting In My Heart  
**

 

Harry woke up with a start. For a second, he thought he had slept in, and pushed his curtains aside quickly. But it was still dark outside, though the sky was starting to fade to gray; it was very early, way too early for him to go about his day. He turned over and tried to go back to sleep, in the warm embrace of the blankets and soft pillows. He hadn’t slept that well in quite a while. He could only take potion for Dreamless Sleep once or twice a week, which meant he was sleeping fitfully most nights, barely getting any sleep, barely able to rest for a few hours before the nightmares came back with a vengeance. But he had almost forgotten just how comfortable the beds at Hogwarts were.

He turned again, but to no avail; sleep was definitely eluding him. Sighing heavily, he grabbed his glasses from his nightstand and sat in his bed. The room was eerily quiet. It was weird not to hear the familiar snoring of Ron, Seamus, Dean and Neville. Padma and Susan’s beds were one one side of the rectangular room, while he and Blaise were on the other. They all had desks next to their beds, each facing a window. 

Not for the first time, Harry wondered how Hogwarts architecture worked; he wondered where in the castle they really were, and if there was even comprehensive floor plans of the place, besides the Marauders’ Map. And even the Map wasn’t quite helpful in helping one figure out how to reconcile the outside of the castle with its inside. Maybe it was like the TARDIS, and bigger on the inside, he thought. Harry smiled fondly. Merlin, he hadn’t thought about Doctor Who in so long. He’d been only nine when the show had been cancelled. He remembered well, because it had made him quite sad; he really liked the Seventh Doctor. The show had helped him so much as a child. It was easier to face the Dursleys when he could hope that some alien would come and sweep him off to travel around the galaxy. How he had longed to become one of the Doctor’s companions! He snorted. It was a bit ironic, wasn’t it?  _ Be careful what you wish for, it might just happen _ , they said. Well, it was true enough. Except that Harry had become more than a companion, he had become the bloody Doctor.

He sighed again, as the memories of last night’s fight with Ron brought him back, quite harshly, to reality. The last thing he wanted was to start the school year mad at his best mate, but he wasn’t going to retract his words either. He didn’t understand why the ginger’s anger was fixated on Malfoy. Sure, they always had been enemies, and he knew Ron had a special hatred for the blond. But why couldn’t he see what Harry saw? Why couldn’t he face the fact that the Draco Malfoy that had been bullying and antagonising them since First Year was gone? Why couldn’t Ron understand that the Slytherin also had been through a traumatising ordeal? He knew Hermione could see it too, and Malfoy had been even more awful to her than he’d been to Ron.

Reluctantly, Harry fully opened the red curtains and got out of bed. As he walked towards his trunk, he noticed that they all had poster beds to the colours of their own Houses; it was a nice touch. If he closed his curtains, he would probably be able to believe he was back at the Gryffindor tower. Not that he missed it terribly this year; he’d rather be around as few people as possible. Sharing the common room with the whole of Gryffindor House, surrounded by so many people he barely knew or at all—well, just the thought was exhausting. 

With everyone whispering and looking at him everywhere he went, he felt like he was back in Fourth Year, right after he’d been named a champion. And now, with Ron possibly not speaking to him… 

At least, he knew all the Eight Years pretty well, even the Slytherins, though there had been no love lost between them over the years. He wondered if that would change. He hadn’t talked often to Daphne or Millicent, but they had always been polite enough to him, if coldly. Just the fact that they were back meant that they had probably laid low last year and that their families hadn’t been involved in the war. McGonagall would never have let any student back unless they had proven trustworthy or at least, worthy of a second chance.

Without meaning to, his thoughts drifted back once again to Malfoy. It was quite fascinating, to witness such a drastic change in the other man. The war had transformed him so thoroughly. Living under the same roof as Voldemort must have been… Well, there was no word for it. Terrible somehow didn’t cut it, it was not strong enough for it.

Though, really, the change hadn’t been sudden, Harry realised. Even in Sixth Year, there was something different about the boy. Harry snorted internally. Of course,  _ he _ had noticed. He’d been so obsessed with him back then. It was weird, thinking about it. Obviously, he had suspected Malfoy of being up to something—and in his defence he had been  _ right _ . But it went beyond that. He’d been stalking Malfoy, had he not? He’d spent more time thinking about Malfoy in Sixth Year than  _ Ginny _ . And he was thinking about Ginny quite a lot back then.

Shaking himself out of this train of thought, he rummaged through his clothes as quietly as possible and headed for the bathroom. What Harry needed was a warm shower, to put on clean clothes, brush his teeth and find something to eat. 

He turned the water on, and waited until the room was filled with steam to walk under the jet. The water was scalding, almost too hot to bear, but that was how he liked it. Closing his eyes, he let the physical sensations take over his body, relishing in the calm feeling it brought. When he finally got out and dried himself, he felt immensely better than the night before. He breathed in deeply as he towelled his hair. He didn’t know how long he had stayed under the shower head, but when he finally got out of the bathroom, his roommates were starting to stir and the sky was now much clearer, though still gray and cloudy.

Harry went down the steps towards the common room. It was empty and the fire had died down almost completely. Looking at the clock over the mantle, he saw that it was almost seven. He hesitated. Should he wait in the common room for Ron and Hermione, or go straight to the Great Hall? After all, breakfast would start soon, and he could take the opportunity to avoid speaking to anyone else for a while. The thought was incredibly appealing at the moment.

His resolve made, the Gryffindor made his way out of the room and into the corridor. He walked through the tapestry—and almost knocked Professor McGonagall over.

“Professor! I’m so sorry, I—I didn’t see you and I—”

“Yes, yes, Harry, I could see that you were very much lost in thoughts. It’s fortuitous that you’re already awake, as I wanted to talk to you before breakfast.”

Harry looked up at her, surprised. “Talk to me? About what?”

“Perhaps it would be better to have this conversation elsewhere than in the corridor,” she offered with a tight smile.

Harry nodded, and followed her up to the Headmaster’s office. 

“I trust you slept well?”

“Better than in a long time, actually,” he admitted.

“I’m glad to hear it,” she approved.

They walked through the still deserted and quiet corridors, relishing in the peace of the morning, the calm before the boisterous hurricane the hundreds of students going about their day would soon create.

Finally, they arrived in front of the Stairwell Gargoyle guarding the Professor’s office.

“William Wallace,” she said to the statue, which stepped aside to let them in.

As they reached the upper level, he looked around curiously. He hadn’t been back here since—well, since he’d used the Pensieve to see Snape’s memories, Harry realised with a start. Snape had kept the office clean and sober, in a bleak way, though he did seem to have kept a few of Dumbledore’s artefacts in the dark wooden cabinets.

As he walked in, he was amazed to see how different the room looked under the Transfiguration Professor’s touch. The transformation was quite incredible actually. He had always felt that McGonagall had a stern, severe character, with a love for order and simplicity; and so he wasn’t prepared for the vibrant colours that were almost irradiating from the various tartans displayed in the room. Some were hanging on the walls, others laid on ottomans, armchairs, tables; not only that, but the Headmistress had also added a few beautifully ornate sofas in chintz, with hints of red and gold in the intricate patterns of the fabric.

“I love what you did with the place, Professor,” he said genuinely.

The Professor smiled, but a sad shadow passed through her eyes. “Thank you, Harry.”

She sat down at her desk and gestured for Harry to take a seat in front of her. 

“Right. So, er, what did you want to talk to me about?” he asked, suddenly a bit uncomfortable.

McGonagall sighed. “Harry… I know it’s preposterous to ask you how you are doing. I think it’s safe to say that none of us are alright after everything that has happened. I can’t begin to imagine what you have been through. I must say, I was surprised to even see you back at Hogwarts. I didn’t think you would come back.”

Oh, Harry had considered not coming back. He had considered going away from it all, go travel the world, maybe to America, where he wasn’t the Saviour or the Boy Who Lived, where he would be almost anonymous. He had thought of going to live like a Muggle, somewhere in the countryside. He had thought of just staying at Grimmauld Place by himself, resting, and figuring things out slowly, maybe find a job or study something new. He had even thought of going to live with Andromeda to help her with Teddy.

But deep down, he knew he had to come back. It was too fresh, it was too soon, and yet, if he didn’t go back now, a part of him knew he never would. He definitely wouldn’t wait a year and finish his studies with people he didn’t know, who were younger than him, most likely starstruck, people who hadn’t gone through Hogwarts with him and couldn’t understand him. No, if he wanted to pass his NEWTs, it was now or never. If he wanted closure as a Hogwarts student, it was now or never. So even if a lot of his instincts were to run the other way, escape, leave everything behind, there was still a stronger one that kept pulling back on his heart—and so to Hogwarts he came back.

Shrugging his thoughts away, Harry shook his head. “I didn’t know I would either, to be honest.”

McGonagall hummed noncommittally. “If you don’t mind me asking, why did you come back? Surely you don’t need your NEWTs to get into Auror training.”

The black-haired man snorted. “Believe me, Robards has reminded me of the fact all summer. He’s been trying to recruit me since May, and boasting about how ‘encouraging’ and ‘heartening’ it would be for everyone to see me join the department that’s currently tearing down what’s left of the Death Eaters and Voldemort’s followers.”

She pursed her lips in disapproval. “Oh yes, Gawain alway was—persistent. But, and pardon me if I’m out of line,” she continued, slightly frowning, “wasn’t it your ambition to become an Auror, Harry?”

Harry stood up and walked towards the nearest window. A thin rain was now falling over the grounds, slowly dissipating the foggy dew. “I don’t know anymore, Professor,” he replied softly, tracing a raindrop with his finger. “I just—I just don’t know.”

He heard the chair the Professor was sitting on move, as she came to stand next to him. “I understand,” she said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Harry, I hope that you know that you are and always will be welcome at Hogwarts.”

He turned minutely towards her. “I know. Thank you.”

She let go of him, and walked back to her desk. “Is there anything—anything I can do?”

Harry considered this. What did he need? What did he want? How could people help? The fact was, he didn’t know. He didn’t know what he needed, what he wanted, for himself and from everyone else. He just wanted to be left alone; for him to exist without having to justify anything. He wanted to lead a normal life, where he could be whoever he wanted and however he wanted, without people telling him off.

But of course, it was impossible.

“I don’t think so,” he said after a while. “I don’t think there’s anything any of us can do.”

Professor McGonagall didn’t reply. They stayed in a companionable silence for a few minutes, disturbed only by the slow ticking of the grandmother’s clock on the wall.

Eventually, Harry turned away from the window to face the Headmistress. “Was there anything else, Professor?”

She was, the man noticed, standing right under Dumbledore’s currently empty portrait, looking at it as though she wanted to wish its occupant in it. Shaking herself out of her thoughts, she walked to her desk to pick something from its top.

“Oh, yes,” she started. “I wanted to give you your timetable in person before breakfast, just in case you wanted to—skip it. I understand you are under quite a lot of attention and scrutiny, and I would like you to feel like you don’t have to be surrounded by hordes of—adoring fans—every hour of every day.”

Harry raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Thank you, that’s—Thank you.”

Looking down at the timetable in her hands, McGonagall hesitated. “I couldn’t help but notice you are only taking five NEWTs.”

The Gryffindor frowned. “Isn’t that enough for me to graduate?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” she replied, dismissing it with a wave of her hand. “And you’ve signed up for all the classes required to become an Auror. I just thought I’d ask you if you wanted to reconsider or add another class. You can still change classes and move your schedule around until Friday.”

Harry was taken aback. The thing was, he hadn’t thought about what he wanted to do with his life in quite a long time. It seemed preposterous to hope for any kind of future last year, while being on the run. 

And it wasn’t like he was currently doing some hard thinking about the future. It was hard enough already to just believe he did have a future, that he would survive to live it.

Taking the paper from her offered hand, Harry nodded. “I will take it into consideration.”

Slowly, he made his way to the door of the office, still puzzled.

“Oh, and lastly Potter,” McGonagall called after him, her tone reverting to the one he had become familiar with over the past seven years, “don’t think that the school rules do not apply to you anymore because you are the Saviour of the Wizarding World. No one in this school is not above getting detentions, am I making myself clear?”

Harry chuckled. “Of course, Professor. Duly noted.”

She nodded curtly in reply, but as he closed the door behind him, Harry saw the shadow of a smile on her lips, and for some reason it made his heart feel much lighter.

*

Draco took a deep breath.  _ Well, here goes nothing _ , he thought, before entering the classroom. There were still fifteen minutes before the bell rang, but he didn’t want to risk running late on the first day. Quite a few people were there already, gathered in small groups, talking casually. Without looking at anyone, he moved towards a desk near the windows, in what he hoped was a discreet way.

Of course, the best-laid plans…  

“What is  _ he _ doing here?” said a tall Ravenclaw Seventh Year Draco thought was named Jason Samuels, very loudly. “This is  _ Defence _ against the Dark Arts, Malfoy, not Dark Arts, you know.”

A quick look around showed him that no other Eight Years had arrived yet. The Slytherin forced himself to remain calm. That was what they wanted, for him to react and raise to their bait. They wanted nothing more than an excuse to accuse him of any wrongdoing. 

“You heard him, Malfoy?” continued another Ravenclaw, putting her hands on her hips defiantly. “I reckon you didn’t take the right door, the one labeled ‘trash’ is the one to the right.”

The rest of the class snickered. Draco inhaled and exhaled as calmly as he could. They were just angry and in pain, he tried to rationalise.  _ You used to do the same or worse to them and others _ , he reminded himself,  _ so shut up and take it without complaining _ .

“Yeah, you don’t belong here, scum,” spat another one, pushing her long hair behind her shoulders. “Your kind deserves to pay for the crimes they committed!”

With trembling hands, he rummaged through his bag to find a book.  _ Ignore them, ignore them _ , he was saying to himself like a mantra, trying to ward them off.

“Did you hear me?” goaded Samuels, placing himself right in front of the Slytherin. “You’re not welcome here, you filthy Death Eater.”

Draco felt more than he saw a few people surround him, mostly Ravenclaw and Gryffindor Seventh Years. He tried to focus on the content of his bag, hoping the class would start soon, or that at least, the teacher would show up and put an end to this.

A blond Gryffindor shoved him forcefully, making the content of his bag spill on the floor. His back hit the wall behind him, and she held him there with her fist as she put her wand under his chin.

“You should be rotting in Azkaban with your worthless of a father,” she hissed scathingly. “You should die for what you did.”

Keeping his eyes to the floor, Draco tried to school his face into a mask of blank resignation, swallowing down the fear that was burning his throat like acid.

“How many Muggles did you kill, Malfoy? Hum? How many did you need to get into You-Know-Who’s circle? Look at me,” yelled the girl, before grabbing him by the cheeks and turning his face up. “You deserve to suffer.”

She spat in his face before releasing him. Draco staggered down, dropping to one knee. Before he could catch his breath, a massive Gryffindor boy grabbed him by his robe and pushed him back brutally against the wall. Draco winced in pain.

“You will regret coming back, Malfoy. Believe me, we will make you pay.”

The blond heard the little pack snigger darkly around him.

“What curse should we try first?” asked a voice he recognised as Ginny Weasley’s.

Draco turned his head so fast he heard his neck crack. The beautiful ginger girl was twirling her wand between her fingers, looking at him with so much contempt, disdain and hatred that he flinched under her gaze. He turned his head back in front of him, dropping it heavily on his chest. He felt the fight and the fear leave him all at once, replaced by a resigned weariness. After all, they were not wrong. He did deserve to be punished, more than he’d already been. At least,  _ he _ thought so.

Suddenly, the grip on this robe relented and he felt himself slide down the wall. A bright light illuminated everything around, blinding him to his surroundings. He raised a hand over his eyes, squinting to see what was happening.

A beautiful stag, made of pure light, was standing in front of him, his antlers oriented towards Samuels, Weasley and the rest of their little gang, creating some welcome distance between them and the Slytherin. 

Draco’s eyebrows shot up in surprise; though he had only seen Potter’s corporeal Patronus once before, in less than optimal conditions, he recognised it instantly. The creature turned towards the blond and nodded. Impulsively, he raised a hand, as though to pet it, which was absurd considering it was not solid but made of light, but the animal walked a few steps towards him anyway, as though leaning under his touch.

“What the bloody hell is happening here?”

Instinctively, he turned towards Potter’s voice; the man was standing in the door frame, his wand arm outstretched and strong, pointing towards Draco and the group of Seventh Years surrounding him.

With a sharp tug, the stag galloped back towards the Gryffindor before dissolving. He walked calmly over where the blond had slumped down. He offered him a hand, which he took shakily. Potter propelled him up and held him with a solid grip, gazing into his eyes searchingly. Draco nodded briefly, and whatever the other man read in that nod, it must have reassured him for he turned towards the others and let go of him.

“I have to say, I expected better from you lot. What the bloody hell is going on?”

“He started it,” retorted one of the Gryffindors, raising her chin defiantly. “He started it when he got that filthy mark on his arm.”

The students around her nodded feverishly in assent. Potter threw them an exasperated look, running a hand through his messy black hair.

“Blimey, Demelza,” he sighed, “what d’you reckon bullying Malfoy is gonna do? Besides getting you expelled?”

“I’d rather be expelled than share a class with this trash,” spat one of the Ravenclaws.

Draco heard quite a few ‘Hear, hear!’ cheering her on.

Potter threw them a cold unimpressed look. “Then by all means, the door is over there,” he jeered. “I’m sure you can work something out with McGonagall.”

The Ravenclaw looked at him with disbelieving eyes. “You’re gonna side with  _ him _ over  _ us _ ? Bloody hell, Harry, he’s a fucking Death Eater!”

The Weasley girl took a few steps in Potter’s direction. “Why are you defending him? He doesn’t deserve it. The bastard would’ve sold you the minute he could to save his skin and you know that.”

Harry froze and turned to face her, his face closed off. “He wouldn’t.”

The Weaslette snorted. “Of course he would’ve. Don’t be so naive, Harry.”

Draco could almost taste the anger irradiating from the Gryffindor.

“You know what, Gin?” he retorted, his voice rising. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re the naive one if you think everything is black and white, that everyone is either good or evil.”

She huffed. “I never said anything like that. But c’mon, Harry, it’s Malfoy we’re talking about. He’s a twisted git, and he wouldn’t have stood up for you the way you are doing now. He would have taken you straight to You-Know-Who. In this case, it’s most  _ definitely _ black and white.”

Potter took a few steps towards the ginger girl, until they were only a foot away from each other. 

“Bloody hell, Gin! You’re acting like he is worse than Voldemort himself.”

She stood her ground, without even flinching at the mention of the name. “And you’re acting like he is one of us! But he’s not, he’s just a slimy manipulative git, who obviously has got you eating out of his hand already! How can you be so  _ blind _ ?”

The black-haired man shook his head angrily. “How can  _ you _ ? You don’t even want to consider for a second that he might have changed and want to make amends. None of you can see that if he’s here at Hogwarts, it’s because McGonagall and the Ministry are obviously allowing it. Or are you going to tell me that you all know better than the Wizengamot and the Headmistress combined?” he shouted, looking at the crowd.

“Oh, sure, because they are always right in everything,” Ginny countered sarcastically. “They’re the ones that allowed Lucius Malfoy to stay out of Azkaban after the first war. They’re the ones who almost had you expelled because you casted a Patronus to ward off Dementors from your cousin! They’re the ones who wrongfully convicted Sirius without a trial!”

Her last words echoed in the vast room. The silence that followed was deep and heavy; Potter’s face had gone blank, and judging by her worried frown, even the ginger knew she had gone too far.

“Don’t—Don’t you  _ dare _ bring up Sirius,” he stated, his voice low and dangerous. 

She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t understand you, Harry. Did you forget how Sirius died? Did you forget what happened that night? Did you forget  _ who _ was Voldemort’s henchmen then?”

Potter recoiled away from her as though she had slapped him. “Fucking hell, Gin. That’s a low blow even for you.”

Weasley raised her arms in frustration. “Well at least I got a normal reaction out of you! For Merlin’s sake, Harry, I get that Malfoy’s mother saved you in the Forest and all, but why do you care so much about what happens to  _ him _ ?” she exclaimed, gesturing towards Draco.

Potter glared at her. “You want to know why? Do  _ all of you _ want to know?” he said, waving around the people gathered around. “Are you gonna give me and Malfoy a fucking break if I tell you?”

Draco flinched. He hated being the centre of this kind of attention. Plus, hadn’t he told the bloody git that he wasn’t a damsel to be rescued only yestersday? “Potter, what did I tell you? I don’t need—I don’t want you to—”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” the Gryffindor cut him off harshly, without even glancing his way. 

The Slytherin pursed his lips, but he knew better than to argue. He might not have been close to Potter for the past seven years, but that didn’t mean he didn’t know him quite well nonetheless.

Potter walked abruptly towards the group of Ravenclaw and Gryffindor Seventh Years, who took a hasty step back. That’s when Draco noticed with a start that many of the Eight Years had arrived and were standing at the back of the classroom, looking warily at the situation unfolding before their eyes.

“During the war,” Potter started, his voice loud and angry, “Malfoy had a golden opportunity to give me over to Voldemort—but he didn’t. He  _ knew _ it was me. He  _ knew _ it because Ron and Hermione were with me, and because even under a good Stinging Hex, my face is still my face. But he lied, to his parents, to fucking Bellatrix, to everyone, and pretended not to know. He had nothing to gain out of this. Actually, he had everything to gain by surrendering me, and everything to lose by not doing it. But still he didn’t. And because he didn’t, we were able to escape and rescue Luna, Dean and others. But I’ve told you this already, Gin. You know about all of this. So yeah, fine, he’s been a right git until last year, and yes, he did bully you, me and our friends most of our childhood. But without him, I wouldn’t be alive. I would have died at Malfoy Manor. Let that fucking sink in for a minute,” he finished, his tone icy and cutting.

The room was eerily silent, only disturbed by the soft splashing sound of the rain on the windows. Potter turned back to face Ginny again, crossing his arm in front of himself.

“What do you have to say to that, then?”

The ginger shook her head, her stare hard and unyielding. “That does not erase all the atrocities, all the torture, all the schemes he participated in, Harry! You weren’t there last year, you can’t know how it was. But  _ he _ was here, when he was not away on some mission for You-Know-Who, no doubt.  _ He _ was here, and he fucking helped torturing First Years.”

_ I didn’t want to _ , wanted to scream Draco, but the words were stuck in his throat. He kept his gaze firmly set to the ground. She was right, on all accounts; he had participated, if only because he hadn’t done anything,  _ anything _ , to stop it.

Potter was shaking his head. “You’re right, I can’t possibly know how it was here last year. One think I  _ do  _ know is what’s in front of me. I’ve seen the trials, I was there at all of them, Ginny. You weren’t. You weren’t there when Malfoy and his mother testified. They betrayed Lucius Malfoy, and not just to save their skins might I add; they did it just so he would stay in Azkaban until his death. You didn’t see Malfoy’s face during his inquest. You didn’t see him at Malfoy Manor, or during the final battle. Why is it so hard for all of you to think he deserves another chance?”

“She’s right, Harry.”

Everyone turned towards the door, where were standing Weasley and Granger, the former looking sourly towards Potter, and the latter anxiously from one to the other.

“I know you think he’s shooting rainbows out of his arse now,” the ginger man continued, “but how can your memory be so fucking short? You keep bringing that Malfoy Manor episode, but what about the Room of Requirement? What about Sixth Year? What about when he  _ repeatedly  _ called Hermione a Mudblood?”

Murmurs of approval followed Weasley’s words. The black-haired Gryffindor threw his arms up in exasperation. “Fucking hell, Ron, of course I don’t bloody forget any of this. I don’t forget, but does that mean I can’t understand why Malfoy did what he did, that I can’t move past this?”

“Colin and Dennis are dead because of him, Harry,” cried Ginny, her hand clenching into fists. “Fred is dead because of him!”

“He didn’t kill them!” he shouted back.

“HE MIGHT AS WELL HAVE!” yelled Ron, coming to stand next to his sister.

Malfoy had never noticed until now how much alike they looked with identical expressions of searing disgust and hatred.

Potter sneered. “So that’s what you really think, then. That Malfoy, who was groomed from  _ birth _ to become a copy of his father, is responsible for  _ every single person _ dying during the war, even though he’s never killed anyone? Is that what you are saying, Ginny, because that sounds a lot like you are using him as an easy target and a scapegoat.”

“I can’t forgive him, Harry, I just can’t!” she cried. “How can you? How can you defend him, stand by his side, argue his case after all that he did to you? How can you let him live when you’ve seen Remus and Tonks’s bodies lying side by side, when you’ve seen Sirius fall through the veil, when you saw what happened the night Dumbledore died? Tell me why I shouldn’t Crucio him right this instant?” she added raising her wand and taking a step towards him.

The Slytherin recoiled against the wall, not daring to grab his wand just yet in case it would provoke her into attacking.

“Ginny!” cried out Hermione, looking shocked. “Stand down!”

Potter went to stand in front of his ex-girlfriend, his wand in his hand pointing to the ground; a warning.

“How? You are asking me  _ how _ ? You think I can ever fucking forget about any of this? You’re just like your brother,” he spat, “it’s like you can’t help throwing it in my face, reminding me everyday of just how many people of my family have died to save me and the wizarding world.” 

He took a step closer to the Weasley siblings.

“For Godric’s sake, Gin, hasn’t the war taught you anything? And you, Ron? After everything we went through? Hasn’t the war taught any of you  _ anything _ at all?” he said to the assembly. 

No one replied. Draco saw that a few of the less vocal Seventh Years were starting to look quite uncomfortable.

Potter went on. “I’m not asking any of you to  _ love  _ Malfoy or become his friends. I’m asking you to give him a chance, to leave him alone, to let him become someone better. If he doesn’t,” he glanced at Draco, “I’ll make bloody sure he rots away forever in Azkaban. But on the off chance he does become a better person, leave him alone, let him learn the hard way what he hasn’t been able to so far.”

Ginny groaned in frustration. “That’s not good enough. For any of us,” she added, when she saw the others nod in approbation.

Granger crossed the room and went to stand by Potter. “Are we really going to squabble like children, on the first day back? Blimey, look at you, all of you! Is revenge the only thing that matters to you? An eye for an eye, is that it? Harry is right,” she added angrily. “Hasn’t the war taught you anything? Voldemort wanted us to be divided. He played on our fears, on our deep seated instincts, he attracted the weak and promised them power. Let’s not prove him right by creating new divisions! Yes, those who committed crimes deserve to be punished. But Draco was still a child when he got the Dark Mark. He didn’t know better. I dare any of you to go through life with Lucius Malfoy as a father,” she bellowed. “How many of you had to stand up to your parents and call them out on their beliefs? How many of you would have done it? Would you have easily renounced the people who loved and nurtured you, the people who were supposed to protect you? Ron, would you be able to do it? To disown your family, to leave without looking back, even if you knew, deep down, that they were wrong and you were doing the right thing? How would you find it, to do what’s right over what’s easy?”

Merlin, but Granger painted a picture of Malfoy that was almost tragically heroic. He snorted inwardly. If only he had been half as noble as she’d made him be.

Weasley looked levelly at her, with the air of someone who has heard the argument before. “Of course, it’s not easy. No one said it is. But it’s not impossible, innit? Sirius did it.”

The black-haired woman shook her head sadly. “But he had friends, friends who thought like him, and welcomed him. You don’t know how hard it is to let your parents go, Ron. You can’t. But I do,” she stated calmly. “Do you even know how hard it was for me to erase my parents’ memories? To effectively delete myself from their lives, to watch them go, knowing nothing would ever be the same? It takes so much strength, so much courage. Most people would have done what Draco did, and you, all of you,” she gestured at the crowd, “need to come to terms with that.”

Ginny hesitated, but ended up lowering her wand a little, turning towards the other woman. “Hermione, no one is saying it’s not hard. But Malfoy is not and has never been a good person, not before the war, not during, not ever. Why would it change now?”

Granger sighed exasperatedly. “I can’t speak for everything he did before the war, of courses. Yes, he was awful, he personally insulted me in every possible way, made me feel like I didn’t belong. And yet, here I am, and here I stand. Because when I look at him now, I don’t see the mean little boy he was, I don’t see the sneering, haughty Slytherin, I don’t see the scared Death Eater, I see a man who was broken and traumatised by years of emotional manipulation, months of abuse.” 

She turned towards the blond. “I see a man who is trying to become his own person. I see someone who can help us defeat the rest of Voldemort’s followers, who has experienced first hand how twisted the Dark Arts can transform anyone. And more than that—I see someone I can forgive and get to know. Someone who made a ton of mistakes and bad decisions, who was a stupid child and a spoiled brat, but someone who deserves a second chance nonetheless.”

Ginny huffed impatiently. “That’s all good and mighty of you, but not everyone deserves easy forgiveness and not to be punished. Malfoy being back at Hogwarts is an insult to all of us who’ve lost people, family,” her voice wavered slightly, “friends, classmates  _ on these very grounds _ . He was an accomplice. He watched it happen. He participated. He made mistakes, grave mistakes, and he deserves to pay and atone for his actions.”

“Ginny, I’m not saying Draco shouldn’t be held accountable for what he did,” she countered. “Of course, he should. Everyone should be held accountable for their actions, at all times. But in many ways he has been already, and he will be again and again and again. You think he got off easy, by not going to Azkaban? But the Wizengamot didn’t let him off with nothing. Yes, he is at Hogwarts, but that doesn’t mean there won’t be further consequences for his actions. Just because you don’t see them doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”

“Well said, Miss Granger,” said the deep and calm voice of a beautiful middle-aged man with dark skin, dressed in vibrant purple and blue robes whom Draco instantly recognised as Kingsley Shacklebolt, the newly appointed Minister of Magic.

“Kingsley!” gasped Potter, before smiling radiantly.

The crowd parted hurriedly, to let room for the Minister to advance in the classroom. 

“It’s good to see you too, Harry,” the man replied amiably. “And you too, Hermione, Ron and Ginny.”

Draco arched an eyebrow; he didn’t know that the Golden Trio was on a first name basis with the Minister of Magic. Though it wasn’t like it came as a surprise.

“Are you the new Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor, then?” Granger asked eagerly.

The older man smiled warmly. “I wish I were, but I’m afraid it’s not extremely compatible with my ministerial duties.”

Glancing around the room, Shacklebolt’s easy manner and affability melt into something much sterner and severe. He looked penetratingly at every student gathered around Draco and Potter.

“I’ve been eavesdropping on this little conversation you’ve been having. I have to say, I’m disappointed in all of you who cornered Mr. Malfoy. Ten points each from whatever House you are part of,” he continued, amidst the groans of the students. “And Miss Weasley, Miss Robins and Mr. Kirke, please head to the Headmistress office after your class, I need a word with you.”

“But Minister,” asked Ernie Macmillan. “Who is our new professor, then?”

“I am,” said a familiar, booming voice, from outside the classroom. “Though, I can’t say I very much like it. I daresay Minerva almost had to drag me by the hair all the way up to the castle before I reluctantly accepted.”

With a mischievous smile, the Minister gestured towards the door with a flourish, as Aberforth Dumbledore walked in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my life has become suddenly much busier than it was when i first started this (started a new job, and this non-profit i volunteer for is currently holding an afterschool program, which is sweet, but means i'm just barely ever able to sit down for more than an hour or two at a time and work on this story). i will try to publish every two-three weeks from now on, most likely on thursdays, but i really can't promise anything.
> 
> however... a good incentive for me to write more and more quickly is definitely to let me know what you think of this so far. :)
> 
> live long and prosper, friends!


	5. You Want It Darker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major major TW for suicidal thoughts/attempt, drinking, self-harm. Please read carefully and at your own risk.
> 
> This chapter was hard to write, and it has been sitting on my drive for quite a while. I wrote the last part after a bad mental health episode, and it was both very cathartic and personal, so personal I almost didn't include it in this chapter. Anyway you'll see. Harry is not okay.
> 
> Also, I'm a perfectionnist and usually read and reread chapters over and over until I'm sick of them, but I haven't done that with this one. It is probably very readable, I'm just very severe with myself, and I'm sure I will come back to it and correct some of it. Like, I'm sure I've repeated words too often in a few paragraphs, and these are things that I'm very picky about, but right now, I just need to publish this chapter as it is. It needs to get out. But I will probably come back to it when I publish the next one.
> 
> I am my own beta so any mistakes you find is mine and mine only!

**Chapter 4. You Want It Darker**

  

The whole class was gaping at Aberforth as he slowly made his way to the front of the class. “You all seem so surprised. I mean, who else were you expecting to fill in? S’not like there’s a lot of potential candidates, is there?”

“I’ll leave you to it, then. Weasley, Robins, Kirke, I will see you shortly,” said the Minister, swiftly exiting the room and closing the door behind him.

Aberforth looked around the classroom, which was still in disarray. “Can someone explain to me what was happening, just now?”

Harry saw the Seventh Years looking at each other uncomfortably, but remaining silent. He glanced at Malfoy, who seemed to be as shocked as he felt.

“No one, hum?”

Hermione raised her hand hesitatingly.

“Granger, is it?”

“Yes, sir.”

He nodded. “So? What is going on here?”

The Head Girl glanced around the room warily, her eyes pausing on Ron a little longer, who avoided her gaze. She crossed her arms over her chest and raised her chin defiantly. “Well, it seems that _some people_ feel that _some other people_ shouldn’t have come back this year.”

Aberforth barked a humourless laugh. “Ah, spoken like a true politician. Stop beating around the bush, will you, I want names, and I want to hear them from the horse’s mouth.”

Harry looked sideways at Malfoy again, who was steadily looking at the ground.

“No? No one?” continued the Professor, gesturing around the class.

Harry hesitated. He did promise the Slytherin that he wouldn’t interfere in his affairs or rescue him against his will. But it didn’t seem like he would stand up for himself, and someone had to. He was just about to speak up, but Hermione was quicker.

“It’s Draco Malfoy, Professor. Some people here seem to think he doesn’t belong here. I, however, do not agree.”

Malfoy raised his head in surprise.

Aberforth snorted. “That’s more like it. Let’s do a quick survey, don’t we? Who here shares Granger’s opinion?”

Harry immediately raised his hand, as did Hermione. Slowly, Ernie raised his hand as well, shortly followed by most of the Eight Years.

Aberforth arched a grey eyebrow. “Interesting. And who thinks Malfoy shouldn’t be here?”

Ginny and Ron raised their hands defiantly. The rest of the Seventh Years looked at each other uneasily. After a few seconds, a few other hands joined the Weasleys’.

Aberforth nodded appraisingly. “I see. I also see a lot of you are either too scared to let us all know what you really think, or undecided. Which is it? Time will tell.”

He walked towards where Malfoy and Harry were standing. “And you, Malfoy. What do you think? Do you belong here or not?”

Harry turned sharply towards the blond, fighting his instinct to say something. Malfoy looked up, his face blank and impassible.

“To be quite frank, I’m not sure I know, Professor.”

The old man shook his head. “Well, it’s good to know you’ve lost that streak of arrogance and self-importance you used to have, boy. Honesty is a great quality too. Oh, it will get you _killed_ ,” he added with a smirk, “but it’s great. As a Slytherin, I believe you know that very well. And no, Potter, that was not an insult,” he interjected when he saw Harry move to intervene. “It’s one of the greatest traits of Slytherin House, actually. A trait all of you should aim to acquire. The ability to assess a situation and adapt yourself and your character to it. What use is it to be honest and bare your soul if the person in front of you is going to use it as a weakness and defeat you? Yes, yes, I’m looking at you, you foolish Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs,” he said pointedly, as the students from both Houses started protesting.

“That’s not fair!” cried out Ernie. “Bullocks!” shouted Ron and a few other Seventh Years.

He silenced them with a steely look. “Not fair? _Life_ is not fair. The sooner you learn that the better you’re going to be at moving on and _surviving_.Be honest, be just, be true to yourselves; by all means, in times of peace, do all of these things and more. But you could learn a thing or two from your fellow Ravenclaws and Slytherins. Trusting your feelings is important, but trusting logic and rationality can save your life. Both should not be seen as opposites, but rather complementary to each other. Relying on one or the other is not enough. Potter,” he barked suddenly, turning towards the black-haired man, “tell us one instance where you regretted casting logic aside and trusting your gut feelings blindly?”

Harry swallowed hard. Oh, he knew exactly which one jumped to mind, especially after all that goading from Ginny about Sirius. Once again, he wondered just how much the Dumbledore brothers had been in touch over the years, and how much Aberforth knew of what had happened in the past eight years.

“The… The time me and some friends sneaked out to go to the Department of Mysteries.”

Aberforth nodded. “And, pray tell, what happened?”

Harry closed his eyes. It still was one of his most painful memories, and years had done nothing to dim its intensity. “I thought my godfather had been captured by Voldemort and his followers, and held hostage in there. But it was a trap, to lure _me_ there instead. My godfather was never in danger. And he—we failed.”

A shudder rippled through the assembled people at the name.

“What did you learn from it?” asked Aberforth, in a softer voice than Harry expected.

Harry thought for a moment. He had never really paused to think about it. “I learned—I learned that acting rashly, without pausing to think, without communicating properly, can lead to a disaster beyond anything I imagined.”

Aberforth nodded knowingly. “Weasley boy, same question.”

Ron uncrossed his arms from in front of his chest in surprise. “Me?”

“Well, unless one of your brothers is hiding somewhere, yes, you.”

The ginger shifted on his feet. “Well—er—I guess there was that time where I thought—I thought—”

Harry knew before he finished that Ron was going to talk about when he left Hermione and him in the middle of the Forest of Dean.

“I thought my best friends were hiding something from me, and I got angry, and well, I—I left them,” he faltered.

Well, that was one way of putting it, thought Harry incredulously.

“How did that work out for you?” asked Aberforth, not too kindly.

“I regretted it almost at once. But I—I couldn’t find my way back. At least, not for a while.”

“Was it the first time it happened?”

Ron bit his lower lip, glancing at Harry uneasily. “Well—no.”

“Why is that?”

The Gryffindor dropped his gaze, scratching the back of his neck. “Well, I tend to let my mind wander and—and not listen to reason. I make things bigger than they are.”

For a long moment, the old man did nothing but look piercingly at Ron, who had turned beet red at his confession.

“Bullstrode,” he barked, his eyes finally leaving the ginger to set on the tall girl standing at the back of the classroom. “An example of logic leading you astray.”

She tilted her head to the right, holding the teacher’s gaze without flinching. “I argued that ‘The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few’, sir.”

“Oh yes,” Aberforth sneered. “One of the most infamous ‘tenets’ of logic. How did that go for you?”

“Not well, sir.”

“What happened?”

She looked at Harry briefly before continuing. “It was during the Final Battle. The Dark Lord had just spoken to the entire school, to give him Potter, sir. Or else he would kill every adult and child standing in his way. Though I wasn’t the one to speak the thought out loud, I convinced the Slytherins around me to do so.”

There was a ripple of shock across the room. Harry raised his eyebrows. He always thought Parkinson had been the one with that particular idea. But now that he thought of it…

Harry was surprised to realise he didn’t feel any anger at the revelation, not really. The thing was, he kind of understood where they had been coming from. Would he have done the same? Probably not. But he understood the urge to protect other people’s lives. And though he would never sacrifice one person for the good of all—well, except himself maybe—he got how it made more sense for some people than fight through endless horror and death, and letting one’s loved ones die as a result.

“Do you regret it?”

Bulstrode nodded. “I do. Every single day.”

Aberforth was now pacing slowly in front of the classroom, looking from one student to another pensively.

“Lovegood,” he said eventually. “Same question.”

Harry turned with a start. He hadn’t even noticed Luna was in the room, with everything that had happened.

The blond girl smiled sadly. “I surmised that ‘Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth’, sir. But I was wrong,” she concluded, her usual dreamy voice sounding more subdued than usual.

“How so?” asked the old man, with a soft voice that reminded Harry so much of Albus Dumbledore that his throat constricted painfully.

“Well, I discounted something as impossible, when it wasn’t. So my premise was wrong. I rationalised my feelings instead of listening to them,” she explained.

“And what happened?”

Luna looked down at the floor. “I hurt someone.”

Ginny took a step towards the Ravenclaw, but stop herself midway, turning away from the other girl instead. Harry arched an eyebrow at Hermione, who looked at him pointedly. He frowned—had he missed something? Hermione rolled her eyes and shook her head, mouthing ‘Later’ before turning her head back towards Aberforth.

The old man shook his head. He walked towards the nearest window, and paused to look outside.

He didn’t turn as he addressed the class once more. “Four examples. Four different situations. I’m sure each and everyone of you have struggled with them too.”

He paused. “The thing is, I don’t think there is much I can teach you, in terms of Defence Against the Dark Arts. I think most of you have fought harder than half the Aurors at the Ministry—though I don’t think Robards would be too happy with me if he knew I said that,” he chuckled.

The silence was so deep you could hear the soft sound of rain on the windows and the distantly echoing voices in the corridors. Aberforth took a few steps and faced them, frowning slightly.

“You may think the time for war is over—but I know better. Yes, a big battle was won last May. Yes, Voldemort is dead,” he articulated slowly, as a shudder ran through the crowd. “Yes, his followers are being hunted. Some of them have seen the errors of their ways long before he fell,” he said, looking at Malfoy, “some of them went in hiding. Some of them will continue his work. Some of them will find ways to threaten this simulacre of peace we are fooling ourselves in. Some of them will succeed in gaining more power, and influencing a new generation of influenceable young people. My brother was fond of advocating for peace, at least superficially, but, and it’s one of the only things I can’t fault him with, he was always on his guard. But he was also deeply flawed. He was too confident, and he became careless.”

The Professor rubbed a hand on his forehead, looking suddenly much older than he had appeared a few minutes earlier.

“I’m not here to train you and make disciplined little soldiers out of you,” he sighed, “but I think a lot of you need to grow up and learn that life is not black and white. This class is called _Defence_ for a reason, and I intend to respect it. But I’m not of the school of thought that believes that the best defence is a strong offence. Neither do I believe that if you want peace, you must prepare for war. What I do believe in,” he added, pointing a finger towards the ceiling, “is that the best battle is the one that has not been fought. But I know you lot very well, better than most of your other teachers, might i add. I’ve seen you grow up outside of these walls. I know you are unbelievably young and foolish and impulsive still, no matter how hard the past few years have been for you. We have here people who fought together,” he said, gesturing vaguely to one side of the room, “people who fought against each other,” he pointed to the other side, “people who betrayed their people, people who fled, people who lost loved ones. We need to move past these differences.”

He walked towards the blank blackboard. Raising a hand, a few lines of text appeared on it. There was a shuffle of quills and parchment and chairs scraping the floor as everyone hurriedly settled and sat down to copy the words on the board.

“And that’s what I intend to make you understand this year. What has happened today, right before class, it needs to stop. It needs to stop happening, and stop dividing us. You need to stop acting like children on a playground, stop acting like there is something like belonging to only one House, and start getting to know each other. You need to start building bridges,” he emphasized, looking from Ron to Malfoy, “you need to start forgiving, and you also need to start being held accountable. You may think that starts with the obvious bad ones. I know most of you are thinking that Malfoy should be the first to be held accountable. And sure. Was Malfoy part of a group that killed and maimed and traumatised this school and the rest of the wizarding world? Yes. Did he participate in some of the most despicable acts and atrocities? In some ways, yes. Was he coerced into it? Yes, and if you believe otherwise,” he paused, raising a defying finger, “I want you to think really hard about what it means to be part of a family, to be loyal to the people you love, and to make mistakes or bad decisions, no matter how small or how big. I know a lot of you are angry that Malfoy is walking free amongst you, but if you are foolish enough to believe he is free and was let off easy, not only do you not understand how justice and trauma work, but I also dare you to prove to me that you would have done differently in his shoes.”

Aberforth clasped his hands behind his back. “If you want to survive what’s coming, and I promise you, it will come, you need to be stronger, you need to know each other’s strengths, each other’s weaknesses, and to survive. You might think Lord Voldemort’s demise means that the Dark Arts practitioners have retreated or been caught, and that from now on, everything will be peaceful and beautiful and that 19 years from now, you’ll be able to look at your children coming here and think that ‘All is well’. And you would be wrong,” he said loudly, “and bigger fools than I thought you for.

He shook his head, looking around the classroom absently. “The Dark Arts never retreat. Never rest. Never sleep. Just because you can’t see them doesn’t mean they don’t exist all around you. You need to see it before it’s too late. In the long decades I have lived through, I’ve seen my fair share of Dark Lords and wizards. Not all of them are as famous as Lord Voldemort or Grindelwald. One thing I can tell you is that they always exist, they always pop out of seemingly nowhere—and they always will. Do not mistake peace for victory, they’re not the same. Against the Dark Arts, we can never truly win. And we don’t want to win. Controversial opinion, isn’t it?” he scoffed at the gaping students. “There is light in darkness and darkness in light. Intent, whether on the side of Dark or the side of Light, is paramount. What if you were using the Dark Arts to cure a mortal disease?” He turned to look at Harry. “What if you used Wizarding Law to condemn someone based on circumstantial evidence and sentenced them to death or a life of imprisonment without getting them a fair trial? Who is the ‘good’ person and who is the ‘bad’?”

He raised his hands, silencing the gasps and huffs of the students. “I’m not saying the Dark Arts are something to be tamed or subdued. They can’t. And it’s very hard to backtrack once you start going down the path of the Dark Arts.”

With a flourish of his hand, Aberforth conjured a few more lines on the board. “This little exercise we just did, I want each and everyone of you to think about two different examples of when you either let your feelings get the best of you or chose not to listen to them. This is your homework for our next class.”

As everyone transcribed the text on their parchment, the Professor walked towards the door, pausing only when he reached the threshold. With a smirk, he inclined his head.

“You can go.”

And he walked out of the classroom, just as the bell rang.

 

*

 

Draco gathered his things quickly and made a beeline for the door. The last thing he wanted was for any of them to be able to corner him again like earlier. All he wanted to do was find somewhere to hide and be alone, and get a fucking grip, because this was how this year was going to be, and he needed to build a stronger shell. His walls were barely holding on as they were, and this was unacceptable.

“Malfoy! Wait! Malfoy!”

He closed his eyes, but didn’t stop walking. He was grateful for Potter’s support and this—how do you call this thing that was between them? Not friendship, at least, not quite yet. Truce maybe. Yes, that worked. He really was grateful for it, but right now—he didn’t think he could handle being with anyone.

He sensed a hand on his shoulder and turned towards the Gryffindor’s face. “Hey, Potter.”

He fell into step with the blond. “Malfoy, are you okay?”

Draco snorted. “What d’you reckon? Would you be okay after—after all of this?”

The dark-haired man shook his head. “I wouldn’t, no. That’s why I’m asking.”

They walked in silence for a beat, making their way amidst the corridors bustling with students shouting at each other, exchanging notes and books, and running towards one end or the other. After a while, the flow of people grew thinner, and they soon were the only ones left wandering the halls.

The Slytherin slowed down and came to a stop near one of the windows. It was raining harder and harder, the grounds barely visible behind the thick veil of rain coming from the sky.

He closed his eyes again, as he leaned on the nearest wall. “I don’t know what to tell you, Potter.”

He sighed heavily, and let himself slide down the stone until he hit the ground. He wrapped his arms around his knees, resting his cheekbone on top of them. The blond felt more than he saw Potter lower himself next to him, not quite touching, but very close nonetheless.

“I don’t know what to tell you either, to be honest. I knew something like this would happen.”

Draco scoffed. “So did I, but it doesn’t make it any easier, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t.”

He turned his head to look at the Saviour, who was staring at him with a softness he had never seen directed at him. His heart skipped a beat; he could get used to see those green eyes look at him this way, and just the thought scared him shitless. Only bad things could come out of this. Draco would get hurt, of course he would. There was no way in hell that someone like Potter could genuinely care for someone like _him_. He averted his gaze quickly.

“Potter,” he said quietly, “don’t take this the wrong way, but I just—I need to be alone. By myself.”

The other man hummed noncommittally. He leaned a little towards Draco, to squeeze his shoulder briefly. “Alright. Yeah, I understand. But just—I’m here, okay? I know we’re not exactly—friends, or—or anything…”

Draco snorted. “Not exactly, no.”

“Not _yet_ ,” the dark-haired man corrected, with a small smile. “But still—I’m here, Malfoy. You can talk to me.”

For a second, he almost protested and replied something harsh, along the lines of _why_ would he want to talk to _Potter_ , of all people, in the first place? And yet, ever since last night, something had shifted between them. And hadn’t he been the one to tell the bloke he could talk to him if he felt suicidal? So, really, Potter was only mirroring his own behaviour.

“Thank you,” he replied simply. “Maybe I will take you up on that. Later.”

The Gryffindor squeezed his shoulder one more time and got up from where he had been sitting.

“See you, then, ferret,” he said, with a wink.

Draco sneered, but there was no heat behind his words. “Yeah, see you around, scarhead.”

He listened to the other man’s footsteps until they died down. He put his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He felt like everything was too much, like he wanted to crawl out of his skin. He got up and stretched a little. The rain had slightly abated outside, and suddenly, he longed to feel the trickle of water on his skin, he longed to feel nature around him, and forget himself for a little while. He knew not all the greenhouses were being used at the moment. With a new resolve, he went down quickly down the staircases and empty corridors until finally, he was in the quad.

The raindrops on his face were cold, but not as cold as he thought they would be. He could feel the water fall down his face, make its way in his hair, getting trapped in his eyebrows, fluttering on his eyelashes. He opened his mouth a little, feeling the water on his lips.

He breathed in, letting the humidity fill his lungs, wash his blood, let his intrusive thoughts go. He wiped his eyes, not sure where the rain began and where his tears ended. Though it was not raining as heavily as earlier, he was soon drenched. He felt a shiver run up his spine, as he opened his eyes to look around him. He was completely alone; the rest of the school was probably still having lunch in the Great Hall. He started making his way slowly towards the greenhouses, relishing in the feeling of the dripping water on his skin, feeling more alive than he had in a long time.

The greenhouse was pleasantly warm and smelled of petrichor, and something earthy, strangely comforting. He felt considerably calmer. He walked around the miscellaneous plants and flowers, admiring their blooming petals, naming them in his head and categorising them mechanically by types and uses. He paused in front of a Devil’s Snare in wonder. He must have walked in the OWL greenhouse, though there were no Fifth Years around.

“Are you also here to watch the Blibbering Humdinger bloom?”

Draco almost yelped as he turned around quickly, drawing his wand automatically. Luna arched an eyebrow at his wand, which he lowered immediately, feeling both foolish and sheepish.

“Er, no,” he replied, wondering what the bloody hell Blibbering Humdingers were.

“It’s alright. They are very shy, I don’t think they’ll come out if there are too many people around.”

“Oh, I can just go then,” he said quickly.

Luna waved her hand in dismissal. “Nonsense. They’ll be there tomorrow. You might not.”

“What a comforting thought,” he replied dryly, but he could feel himself smile.

The blond girl smiled back. “I know, it’s nice to see that there are some things that will never change, that have been there long before us, and will remain long after we die. We are nothing but fleeting moments in the universe, amidst creatures and systems that have endured for millions of years. All we can do is enjoy these fleeting moments for what they are, and be grateful that we live to witness the world around us for another day. That’s the true beauty of life, of magic, don’t you think?”

Draco blinked; he was truly speechless. People always discounted Luna as a dreamer and a lunatic, but Draco marveled at her wisdom and calm acceptance of life and its impermanence.

“It’s a beautiful way to see it, Luna,” he replied softly.

She looked up at him, her smile widening. “It really is.”

They remained in companionable silence for a while, looking at the rain-filled clouds and their slow walk across the sky through the foggy window.

“I never properly thanked you, for what you did, Draco,” she said suddenly.

The Slytherin raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Thank me? Whatever for?”

“For being kind. For taking care of us, Mr. Ollivander, Dean and I, when we were prisoners in the Manor’s dungeons. I know you risked the Dark Lord’s and your family’s wrath for doing it,” she said, her pale eyes gazing straight into his soul.

He looked down quickly, blushing. “It’s nothing, Luna. I wish—I wish I could have done more. I wish I could have been braver.”

She put a hand on his arm. “It’s alright, Draco. You are braver now, that’s all that matters.”

“Is it though? Is it all that matters? Is it enough? I can’t help but think it isn’t,” he whispered, leaning back on one of the work tables.

“We cannot change what’s already happened, Draco. All we can do is learn from the past, and try our best to change how we do things in the future.”

He shook his head. “Maybe you’re right, Luna. It’s just hard to believe, sometimes, that there is a future at all.”

Her hand was cold on his skin, as she took his and held it gently. “There will always be a future, Draco. Whether we are part of it or not, that’s different. Time doesn’t start or end with us. It just is, and it will keep going long after us.”

He looked at her wistfully. “You really are quite extraordinary, Luna.”

She smiled at him again, before turning her head back towards the sky. “Draco, do you know who my mother was?”

Draco turned back the Ravenclaw, frowning. “I only know she died when you were young. That’s the first time I met you, wasn’t it? The day of her funeral.”

“It was.”

“What about her?” he asked, curious.

Luna stared piercingly at the Slytherin. “Do you know what her name was? Before she married my father?”

He thought about it for a minute, trying to remember the different family trees of the Sacred Twenty-Eight and other notable families. Her name had been Pandora, hadn’t it? But Pandora who? “Was she a pureblood?”

“Yes, she was,” she replied simply.

Draco frowned in concentration, but he couldn’t, for the life of him, remember which family she was born into. “I don’t know, Luna, I can’t remember.”

She hummed pensively. “To be fair, I don’t think you ever were taught about her affiliations.”

“What was her name, then?”

She crossed her arms in front of her chest, her eyes searching Draco’s, as though looking for something there. He scowled; what was that all about? The elated and quiet mood of earlier had all but vanished now.

The blond girl kept looking at him for what felt like an hour, but was probably only a few minutes. After a time, she sighed, a tight smile forming on her lips.

“Her name was Pandora Malfoy.”

 

*

 

 

“Hey, Harry, you coming out tonight? We’re heading to the Three Broomsticks after dinner.”

Harry was sitting down at the Gryffindor table, albeit reluctantly. He had almost skipped dinner, but the look Hermione had thrown his way when he had tried to slip away had been enough to get him to stay around. He looked up towards Dean, who had casually thrown his arm around Seamus’s shoulders. Seamus was talking to Neville, a hand on Dean’s thigh and gesturing animatedly with the other. Harry still couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed that they were together. Merlin, he really was blind, sometimes, wasn’t he?

He looked further along the table, where Ginny was sitting. She was looking at her plate without really seeing it, pushing food around it mechanically. He saw her glance at Luna, who was sitting at the Hufflepuff table with Ernie and Hannah, before looking back down. What was that all about, Harry had no idea, but he couldn’t really find in himself to care, at least not enough to dig deeper. He was still incredibly mad at her and at the way she had spoken to Malfoy earlier. What had gotten in her and Ron, lately? Why was their anger aimed at the Slytherin so specifically? Harry understood anger, and frustration, and sorrow, and how it affected your perception. He remembered only too well how easily he had lashed out at people after Fourth Year, how he had felt no one could understand what he was going through. He had been a selfish prick, but he had also been in pain, and he didn’t know, back then, how to deal with so much deep-seated sorrow and hurt. So he just lashed out.

Maybe they just needed time. Sooner or later, they would have to admit that their anger was not targeted at Malfoy specifically, that the man, though he had his share of flaws and faults, was not the person they were angry at. Not really, at least.

It was weird, how his relationship with Malfoy had changed, over the past year and a half. Ever since the night Dumbledore died, ever since he had seen Malfoy lower his wand ever so slightly when the Headmaster offered him a chance… Well, since then, he couldn’t hate Malfoy like he used to. He had seen how the Slytherin had withered during Sixth Year. How he had steadily declined, how the arrogant, self-assured bully had turned to a ghost, a shadow of himself. He shuddered when once again, he thought of that duel they’d had in the bathroom, how the Sectumsempra had hit his gaunt frame, how little his skin had paled even as the blood was rushing out of his chest. He had seen the glint of relief in Malfoy’s eyes, as his life was ebbing away; a glint he understood only too well himself now.

They hadn’t seen the anguish in Malfoy’s eye, at the Manor, when he, Ron and Hermione had been captured. They hadn’t seen the panic, the fear, the doubt, and something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on. There had been something almost like despair in the blond’s eyes, a knowing despair that Harry was the last hope they all had.

Harry looked around the Great Hall, but the blond was nowhere to be seen. He couldn’t blame him, he probably would have done the same after a day like today.

“Harry?” repeated Dean.

“Maybe next time, Dean,” he replied with what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

“Oi, come on, Harry!” exclaimed Seamus. “It kinda looks like you could use a drink.”

He looked over at Ron and Hermione, who were sitting further down the table. Even if he and Ron didn’t quite see eye to eye right now, he knew if he didn’t go, both Hermione and Ron would be all over his case. Hermione would probably tag along wherever he’d go, just to be sure he was alright.

“Alright, yeah, maybe you’re right,” he admitted. “You going now?”

“Yeah, I think so. Looks like everyone is done with dinner. Oi, Eight Years,” Seamus called loudly. “We’re leaving now!”

To Harry’s surprise, almost all the Eight Years, even the Slytherins, got up and headed towards the Gryffindor table. Harry stood up and followed the pack out of the Hall.

They had almost reached the doors when McGonagall stood in front of them, blocking their way.

“Miss Weasley, Miss Lovegood, I’m afraid only the Eight Years are allowed out of the castle.”

“But that’s not fair! We are of age!”

“These are the rules, Miss Weasley. Might I remind you, also, that you have a detention to attend to in an hour, for which you do not want to be late.”

Ginny rolled her eyes and stormed out of the Great Hall, most likely heading towards the Gryffindor tower. Luna smiled to them and wished them all a good night, following Ginny out of the room.

“One last thing. You are still Hogwarts students, and I expect your behaviour outside of these walls to reflect it and be irreprochable. Should it come to my ears that it’s not the case, you would lose the privilege of walking in and out of the grounds freely. Am I making myself clear?”

“Yes, Professor,” they chorused.

The sun was still not quite set when they got out of the castle. The fresh breeze felt good on Harry’s skin. Maybe it would do him some good to get out of the castle, to have a drink with his friends and let go of the emotions of the past few days.

Hermione bumped his shoulder with hers. She smiled tentatively at him.

“A Knut for your thoughts,” she asked softly.

He shrugged. “I was just thinking about how good it felt to be out of the castle. I can’t believe we only arrived yesterday? It already feels like a week has gone by.”

She nodded, rolling her eyes a little. “Honestly, I can’t quite believe it either. I knew—well, I knew things would be hard, that conflicts would happen, but not so soon, and not to that extent, d’you know what I mean?”

The black-haired man snorted. “Yeah, I do.”

A few people around them started signing the Hogwarts song, replacing some of the lyrics by the most inappropriate words they could find. Harry chuckled at Hermione’s haughty huff next to him, though she didn’t intervene.

They lingered at the end of the group, looking at their friends and classmates laugh and trip and run around as they made their way towards Hogsmeade. Harry wished he could be with them, truly be with them; not like this, present but not mingling. He wished he could just enjoy the moment, seize the day, forget for a second the dark thoughts that were always threatening to spill, just under the surface. He had been lucky enough today, they had stayed at bay most of the day, what with everything that had happened. For some weird reason, it helped, that Malfoy was there. It helped that he could be there for someone, someone who might actually need him. Of course, Ron and Hermione would protest that they very much needed Harry, but it wasn’t exactly true, was it? Yes, they loved him, and the three of them needed each other in a way not many people understood. But they had each other, and though they were scarred by the war and all the loss and everything, they were okay. Ginny had her other friends, and her family. His other friends didn’t need him.

But Malfoy—he didn’t have anyone, did he? And though Harry knew the other man was used to be alone and have no one but his mother to depend on, he also knew how lonely it was, to not have anyone you can truly count on in a crowd.

He sensed Hermione’s hand reaching for his own, and turned his head towards her. She was frowning, looking intently at his face.

“Are you okay, Harry?” she said gently.

He stared into her beautiful brown eyes, full of concern and love, and he couldn’t help but feel a rush of affection for his best friend. He took her hand in his and squeezed it gently.

“I will be,” he replied, with a sad smile.

He wondered if he would one day be able to believe it.

*

Harry was not okay.

He finished his Firewhisky in one gulp, clanking his glass loudly on the counter, but nobody paid him any attention. The pub was very crowded and noisy, even more so because of the boisterous gang of Hogwarts students. Roaring laughter came from a table on his left. He glanced at it, and saw his friends cheering as Hannah grabbed Neville by his shirt and leaned in to kiss him. As she pulled back, biting her lips, Neville looked up to her, as in a daze, and kissed her back fervently, under the roaring approval of the crowd.

Harry felt something like acid burn in his throat.

“Another,” he rasped to Madam Rosmerta, gesturing to his empty glass.

She threw him an unimpressed look. “I think you’ve had enough, dear.”

Grinding his teeth, he glared at her, but turned away from the bar. He didn’t feel that drunk, but even he had to admit that he’d probably had enough. Everything was starting to sway around him, albeit very slightly. He looked over at the table where his friends were still cheering and playing some drinking game. He felt a pang of sorrow take hold of his heart; it made him so happy to see his friends smile and laugh. He looked at Ron and Hermione, whispering in each other’s ears, giggling happily, and looking so utterly in love it made Harry’s heart swell. They deserved it so much, this joy, this carelessness, this celebratory atmosphere. He saw Ginny, who had popped out of the blue a few hours earlier, probably through one of the secret passages leading to Hogsmeade, flirt shamelessly with Ernie, who had gone bright pink.

He wasn’t jealous, he told himself. He _wasn’t_. And to be fair, it was mostly true. He wasn’t jealous of Ernie, of all people. Nor was he jealous that Ginny was flirting with other people. But seeing her with him, seeing them getting closer, brought up all the pain, and the feelings he hadn’t examined too closely all summer. It brought up their failed relationship, and all the regrets, all the bitterness of being unable to be what she needed, of having betrayed her and himself by pulling away.

Harry closed his eyes, fighting against the tears that threatened to spill any second now. He had to go. It was too much, too soon, too—too everything. He opened his eyes and made sure no one was looking at him as he surreptitiously got out of the Three Broomsticks.

The cool air felt good on his skin, after the hot, stale atmosphere of the pub. Harry tried to breathe deeply, and regain a semblance of composure.

But the emotions he had tried to keep in check all day were bubbling up to the surface fast, and he just couldn’t fight them. Maybe it was the alcohol; maybe it was seeing all of his friends so happy when he couldn’t be; maybe it was being back at Hogwarts, fighting with his best friend and his ex; maybe it was a combination of all of it at the same time.

And suddenly, just like the night before, tears spilled from Harry’s eyes, uncontrollably. His chest was heaving as the sobs came out harsher and harsher. He made a run for the castle doors; he didn’t want anyone to find him like this. The Entrance Hall was deserted, and everything was eerily quiet. Stifling his sobs, trying to be as quiet as possible, Harry climbed all the way to the top of the castle.

He didn’t know why it always had to be the Astronomy tower. Maybe because that’s where it all really began. Harry went up the narrow staircase, the tears still spilling freely on his cheeks. It felt like he would never be able to stop crying. He dropped to his knees in the middle of the terrasse, curling over as though it would somehow ease the pain in his chest, make the sorrow go away. Seeing all of his friends so happy to be out and drink themselves under the table, relishing in the feeling of being alive and young, kissing each other, giggling uncontrollably—it was all too much for Harry. It only made him more aware than ever how alone he really was. And it was his own fault, really; he was the one who pushed Ginny away. But if he was honest with himself, Ginny wouldn’t have been able to make him feel better tonight, amidst all the couples and the love. Because he didn’t love her, not like that, not anymore. It would only have made it worse.

It hurt too much to see them, to see them reborn and ready to tackle the rest of their lives, while it felt like he was stuck in amber. There was sorrow in all the drinks and cheering his friends had been up to tonight, but the sadness somehow had been transformed into a celebration of life, of honoring the lost friends and the empty chairs around all of them. Somehow, all Harry could see were the empty chairs.

And Harry couldn’t handle it. And so here he was once again, crying his heart out, drunk and full of a grief that couldn’t be spoken.

He looked up to the sky, and all he could see was the moon, amidst the thunderous clouds and the faint light of the stars. He looked down at his hands, at how the moonlight was reflecting on his brown skin. He wanted to rip it off his body; he wanted to scream, and scream, and scream until his lungs gave out; he wanted to pass out and wake up only in a thousand of years, when finally the grief and pain would have abated, when living wouldn’t hurt anymore.

His gaze, blurred by the tears, fell down to the stone wall he had hit with all his might only the night before. He could make out a faint brownish stain, and he knew at once it was his blood. He suddenly wished all of his blood would stain the stones of this castle he used to call home. It was not that Hogwarts wasn’t home anymore; but it wasn’t the same. It was forever tainted, there was no denying it.

He stood up, his legs trembling and almost giving out under him. He walked unsteadily towards the wall. The coarse stone under his fingers was somehow comforting and grounding. He closed his eyes, trying hard to regulate his breath. A shiver ran through him as a wave of deep sorrow took over him once again. He braced himself on the wall, holding the stones like his life depended on it.

He opened his eyes and looked down. The tower was so high. He looked into the void between where he was and the far away ground. It would be so easy, to follow the call of the abyss, to let himself fall down that last rabbit hole. It was a call that was so appealing right now; all he wanted was for it all to stop. He was too overwhelmed, he was just feeling too much, too intensely, too deeply. There was no way he would be able to move forward, was there? There was no way he would be able to keep going through this life, bearing all this sorrow, and grief, and pain. Death—death would be such a relief. Nothing else would be, Harry knew.

Without thinking too closely at what he was doing, he climbed on the stone wall, bracing himself on the columns on each side of him. It would be so easy, to let go, of the stone, of life, of everything, and fall at last into oblivion, into darkness, a world devoid of pain; to stop existing. All he had to do was take a step, a little voice at the back of his mind was whispering, Just a tiny step, and it would all stop.

“Potter! STOP!” yelled a voice behind him. But Harry’s head was in a cloud, all the sounds came to him like through a fog. He moved forward—but solid arms pulled him back, unbalancing him backwards. He fell hard on the ground, his head hitting the stone floor, his glasses breaking.

He felt arms encircle his torso and lifting him. A cold hand cupped his neck, while another brushed all over his head, resting on his forehead, pushing back the hair falling over his face.

“Potter, talk to me, look at me. You’re alright. You’re alive.”

“No,” he replied sluggishly. “I don’t—I want it—to—stop.”

“I know. Believe me, I know. It’s hard. It would be so easy to make it stop. But you have to fight it, Potter.”

“Don’t wanna,” he whispered, feeling dizzy. The sorrow in his chest gave a sharp tug, wrenching a sob out of his chest. “Lemme go.”

“No. I’m not letting you go, Potter.”

Harry suddenly got very angry at the voice keeping him from falling, keeping him from making the pain stop. He tried to push away the arms holding him, to stand up on his own, and go back to the wall.

“Gerroff me,” he groaned. “I wanna—I need to—make it stop.”

“Fucking hell, Potter. Snap out of it.”

He suddenly felt something trickling over from his head, slowly making its way along his body, making him shiver. The fog lifted suddenly, leaving in its wake an unpleasant headache and parched throat.

“Reparo,” he heard the voice whisper. He looked over to its owner, but couldn’t make out anything in the dark except pale, almost white hair glinting in the moonlight.

It could only belong to one person.

“Here, I mended your glasses.”

Harry took them from the pale hand holding them. Malfoy’s pointy face came into focus.

“Malfoy? What are you doing here?”

The blond raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “I wish I could ask you the same, but I’m afraid that, well, I know why _you_ are here.”

Harry glanced over to the stone wall he had been standing on only minutes before. Weirdly, sobering up didn’t really make it less appealing. A wave of pain and sorrow washed over him with renewed strength, not at all dimmed down by the alcohol as it had been before.

He pushed Malfoy away and stood up on wobbly legs, wincing as the pain in his head throbbed. He felt more tears falling down his cheeks. Would he ever stop crying? The sorrow was too deep, it unearthed too much; it was like a geyser of boiling water, long repressed, exploding at last. He walked to the stone wall again, putting his hands down on the rough stone. His hands were still painful from yesterday, but he relished in the physical pain. Somehow, it was easier to hold on to the painful physical sensations than to the invisible hand wringing his heart and trying to rip it off his chest.

He felt Malfoy’s hand on his arm, soft and careful, much more so than Harry expected. He turned his head towards him. The Slytherin was looking at him gravely, but there was no trace of pity or anger or fear on his face. There was an unnamed emotion, something like understanding and compassion etched on the other man’s features.

“Potter,” he said, his voice gentler than Harry ever heard it. “Please. I know it’s tempting. I know it’s hard to push these urges away.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Believe me, I do. I have stood here countless times debating if I should just jump too.”

Harry looked up sharply. Malfoy held his gaze, challenging and strong, as though he was daring Harry to call him a liar. For a second, he saw his own thoughts, his own pain mirrored in the Slytherin’s eyes, and it made his heart skip a beat.

“I didn’t know, Malfoy.”

The blond snorted. “Come on, Potter. Didn’t you, really?”

He let his head drop to his chest. “How—How did you make it go away?”

Malfoy’s hand on his arm was strong and steady. He felt it squeeze him a little harder, as though trying to convey something solid, an anchor of some sort to the physical world. “I didn’t. Somewhere, deep in my heart, this urge is still there, and it always will. But I fought the voices in my head pushing me towards the ledge. And with time, I got better at not listening to them. Now, when they try to talk to me, I usually succeed in ignoring them.”

“I just—I’m in so much pain, Malfoy. I want to make it stop. Why should I keep fighting? What do I have left to live for? Why shouldn’t I give up?”

Malfoy turned Harry around, so they were facing each other. He put his hands on his shoulders, holding him fiercely, shaking him a little. “You are Harry Potter. And if there’s one thing I know about you, it’s that you _do not_ give up. Ever. You killed the Dark Lord, after months on the run, after destroying the Horcruxes almost no one knew about.”

The Gryffindor crossed his arms in front of his chest defensively. “I got help. I wouldn’t have been able to do any of this without Ron and Hermione.”

The Slytherin rolled his eyes. “Of course. But you and only you stood before him and fought him.”

“With _your_ wand,” he couldn’t help but point out.

“Yes, and because of it, you figured out that the Elder wand was yours to command before he did.”

Harry tensed further, getting steadily angrier. “It was luck.”

The other man sighed exasperatedly. “Maybe in part. But we are all bloody alive because of _you_ , Potter. Let—that—sink—in. Please.”

Suddenly, all of the anger and resentment left him, as quickly as they had come, leaving in their wake an intense and deep weariness. “I should have died in the Forest. I _wanted_ to die. I still want to. I want to die all the time, Malfoy. I’ve been wanting to die everyday since that fucking Battle. I saved the world. I killed Voldemort. Why should I survive anymore? I’ve accomplished my destiny, haven’t I? Why can’t I just _rest_? Why can’t I just let it all go?” he choked out, his voice strangling in his throat.

He felt Malfoy’s hand brush his chin and glanced up. Harry was surprised at the naked emotions he could see in the other man’s eyes. He had never seen Malfoy so vulnerable, so raw; it was like he had let his guard down completely. The blond smiled sadly, his eyes unwavering as they bored deep into Harry’s. “Potter. Look at me. Look into my eyes. I am only alive because of you. I am not about to let you die. You understand? You are the Boy Who _Lived_ , Potter. The Boy Who Lived _Twice_.”

The black-haired man bit his lower lip, as more tears spilled from his eyes, as the hurt gave a sharp tug at his heart, relentless and blinding. “I don’t want to be. I’ve never asked to survive... I’ve never asked for any of it.”

Malfoy snorted derisively. “Do you think any of us have any choice over the matter? Do you think I _asked_ to be born a Malfoy? That I asked to be brought up in a gilded cage of lies and deception and bigotry? That I asked to be thrown out of it and be forced into the service of a man who had my mother’s life in his hand, to be manipulated into betraying my friends, my school, and everything I held dear?”

Harry huffed, turning away. “No, of course, not. But you, then, you of all people can understand that dying, that making it all stop is the only thing I have control over. It’s the only choice I can make.”

“You can choose to live, too.”

Rage—sudden and irrepressible—flooded Harry’s brain. “I DON’T WANT TO. I CAN’T. I—can’t. I can’t.”

“Potter,” the Slytherin snapped. “Remember who you are. Remember everyone you love. Remember Granger and the Weasleys, and Hagrid, and all your friends. Remember the people in your family, Lupin, your godfather, your parents, who died, fighting, so you could live. Remember your parents, Potter, who died all these years ago protecting you. They would want you to live. They would want you to survive.”

Harry chuckled mirthlessly. “I will never know what they would want, Malfoy.”

“You can be reasonably sure they would want you to live, though,” scoffed Malfoy, with a sad smile.

Harry closed his eyes. Thinking of his parents, of everything he had lost, of all the pain of a family he was robbed of too early, came back with a vengeance. It was unbearable. He felt his knees buckle and drop to the ground, his head resting on the wall below. He could feel the tears running freely down his face wet the stone under him, while his chest heaved faster. How could he withstand so much pain? He felt suffocated by it, the intensity of the emotion washing over his whole body.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, squeezing hard.

“Potter, do you need me to get Granger and Weasley?”

“N—No. No, please,” he begged. “I don’t want them to know.”

“Potter, you can’t stay this way. You need help.”

Harry shook his head forcefully. “Not—not them. It would hurt them too much.”

“Potter, for Merlin’s sake,” the other man exclaimed. “Yes, it will hurt them. But it will hurt them more if you don’t tell them. Or worse.”

But how could he ever reach out? How could he ever be able to talk about it to the two people he loved the most? How could he withstand their gaze changing, their knowing eyes following him, anxiously wondering if he was okay, constantly watching him for signs, interfering with his life? _You’re not being fair_ , another voice said in his head. _They only want to help. Why can’t you let them?_

And that was the crux of it, wasn’t it? Why couldn’t he let them help?

“Did you ever tell anyone?” Harry asked Malfoy.

The other man stayed silent for a while. His grip on Harry’s shoulder became harder, to the point that he glanced up to look at the Slytherin’s face. Malfoy had his eyes closed and was breathing slowly, his face contorted in a grimace, as though he wanted to keep a blank face but couldn’t help showing some emotion.

“Malfoy?” Harry asked carefully.

“I did tell—someone,” he articulated, with some effort. “I told Severus.”

Though Harry’s eyebrows raised high in surprise, a part of him admitted that it made sense. After all, Severus had been tasked by Narcissa to look over Draco. He didn’t know Snape and Malfoy had been _that_ close though.

“How—?”

“He found me, after—after a very bad night. I had spent the whole weekend trying to repair the Vanishing Cabinet, and time was running out. Everyday, I received letters, from my father, from my aunt, from my mother, inquiring about my progress. My aunt Bella was by far the worst of them, hinting at punishments to be received if I didn’t succeed, or succeed quickly enough. After a particularly nasty letter, I spent 36 hours straight in the Room of Requirement, barely ever pausing for anything; I didn’t eat, I didn’t sleep, I didn’t move from that room, and tried over and over and over to repair that blasted cabinet. At some point, I just lost it. I came—I came here.”

“You tried to jump, too?”

“No. I—I couldn’t. I was too scared. So I—I took some Draught of Peace. A _lot_ of it. And Severus found me.”

Harry realised that he wasn’t crying as hard as he had a few minutes ago. The pain, the sorrow—they were still very much there. But he couldn’t help but feeling something like kinship and empathy towards Malfoy.

“That was a week before you Sectumsempra’d me,” the blond continued, with a small mirthless smile. “When the spell hit me… To be honest, I was relieved. For the first time in a long time, I was feeling quite at peace. I think that the first thought that went through Severus’s head when he found us was that I had attempted to—for the second time in as many weeks. But then—”

“Then, he saw me, and he recognised the spell he had invented.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry, Malfoy. I’m sorry for your loss,” whispered Harry, after a while.

Malfoy looked at him with an unreadable gaze, before nodding gently. “I know he made your life miserable. Even more than I did.”

The Gryffindor shrugged. “Sure. But you’ve both proven to be better people than I initially took you for too.”

“I’m not a good person, Potter.”

“You _weren’t_ a good person. You are trying to be better now.”

Malfoy smiled sadly. He sighed and shook his head. “See? Another reason why you should fight and survive—to hold me accountable and believing in me in the same sentence.”

Harry snorted. “You manipulative git.”

Malfoy smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Whatever it takes, Potter.”

Harry felt something constrict his chest even more. For a minute, he had almost forgotten about the pain, and everything. Almost. He breathed deeply, and closed his eyes. His cheeks were still wet with tears, though they were coming out more slowly now.

He suddenly felt incredibly tired, exhausted to the very marrow of his bones.

“Potter?”

Harry opened his eyes. Malfoy was frowning, looking searchingly at his face. He tried to smile, but he felt quite unable to.

“I—I think I should—rest. Need to sleep.”

Malfoy nodded. “I’ll bring you to the Hospital Wing.”

“No—I don’t want to—”

“Potter. Look at me. Listen to me. You can’t go on like this. This is the second night in a row you’ve—You need help. The sooner you’ll admit it, the better.”

Harry felt the panic grow in his chest. “But—I don’t want to—”

Malfoy grabbed him by the shoulders. “Look at me. You need help. And if you don’t want to reach out to your friends, you need to reach out to someone else. I think—I think we should go to McGonagall.”

The Gryffindor shook his head. Fuck, he didn’t want to, he didn’t want to let anyone in. He didn’t want anyone to see him like this, the pathetic mess he had become.

“Potter,” the Slytherin insisted, his voice wavering, “you are not weak for asking for help. You’ve been through hell and back, it’s a miracle you are even still standing.”

Harry put his arms around his legs, resting his head on his knees. He felt the tears spill again, against his will.

Gently, he felt Malfoy’s hand grab him from under his armpits, coaxing him to stand. He let himself be pulled up, letting his weight rest on Malfoy.

“We’re going to go down now, Potter. Just follow my lead. That’s it, you’re doing great.”

Harry snorted weakly. “Yeah, if only the world could see the Great Harry Potter right now. I’m doing so fucking great.”

“Shut up, you git. If I say you’re doing great, you’re doing great, alright?”

“Why am I even listening to you, ferret?”

“Maybe you’ve finally come to your senses and realised that I’m a superior being, scarhead.”

“As if. You’re just a prat.”

“Oi! Watch it, Potty!”

Their progress was slow, and they had to stumble and hide quite a few times to avoid bumping into students, teachers and Filch. Somehow, they made it all the way to the Headmistress’s office without causing any incident.

Malfoy cursed under his breath. “How are we supposed to reach McGonagall up there?”

“Wait, I know the password,” remembered Harry with a start. “It’s something like—Wally Wallace.”

The statue remained imperturbable. Malfoy glanced at Harry with a dubious eyebrow. “Wally Wallace? Are you sure you don’t mean _William_ Wallace?”

The eagle started moving, slowly revealing the moving staircase. Malfoy hopped on it eagerly, dragging Harry, who was still leaning heavily on him. Usually, he would have been ashamed of it, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. It felt as though he was too weak to do anything but rest his weight on Malfoy, and let the blond heaved him around, an arm around his waist, and the other holding Harry’s arm over his shoulders.

Soon, they were standing in front of the door leading to the Headmistress’s office. Malfoy let go of Harry’s hand and knocked four times on the oak door. They heard some shuffling, and a few moments later, the door opened on the stern looking face of the Headmistress, hastily putting on a tartan dressing gown. She gaped in surprise at the odd pairing in front of her, looking from one man to the other as though unable to process what was happening.

“Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Potter. What _on earth_ is going on?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The delay for this chapter was also due to Avengers Endgame and me reading waaaaaay too much stony fics to cope with its ending. Actually working on a stony story in parallel, BUT that being said, I have already written like 20,000 more words of this fic, I just need to organise it and smooth over chapter transitions and ** THE PLOT **. Because yes, this has been a slow start ( * cough * 30,000 words in and nothing has really happened), but some action and plot will be coming in the next chapters.
> 
> Honestly, this is fast becoming a monster of a fic, I'm like almost 50,000 words in and nowhere near finished and where I want to be. So yeah, this is going to take a while to finish, BUT I LOVE IT.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Thank you for all your comments and kudos! You have no idea how much they help me write this with renewed purpose and energy! :)


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